


Chasing a Memory

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, It's the prologue fic for my novel Chasing a Ghost fyi, M/M, Post-Barricade, Trans Enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2020-08-14 03:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: The prologue fic for 'Chasing a Ghost'!-After Enjolras and Grantaire survive the barricades, alone, they have to pick up the pieces and figure out how to survive - and how to navigate the challenges life throws at them...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laughingmistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingmistress/gifts).

> Very brief misgendering of Enjolras here at the start, just a warning.

**June, 1832. Paris.**

**-**

“These are to be our lodgings, then?” Enjolras' voice was as stiff and cold as his demeanour. The landlady - a plump, elderly woman with thin lips and hard expression - gave an indignant huff at his tone.

“Were you expecting Versailles, Madame?”

Grantaire saw Enjolras flinch at the manner in which he was addressed. The landlady noticed too, but evidently thought it the result of his surroundings.

“I know it 'ain't fancy, but it's a roof and a bed,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Monsieur said he wasn't fussy about the accommodation, only the price. You won't find a cheaper room in all of Montmartre.”

“It will serve well enough, Madame,” Grantaire told her, pressing a coin into her hand. “We will take it.”

The landlady gave a short nod, eyeing Enjolras up and down. “You're married, you said?”

“Yes, Madame,” Grantaire lied, averting his gaze. “Newly so.”

“Hm. No wedding bands, though. Can't afford 'em, I suppose? Well, it's no matter to me if you are or you ain't. Just pay your rent on time.”

With that she handed over the key, hitching up her skirts as she turned to leave. For a moment following her departure neither Grantaire nor Enjolras spoke. It was a wretched situation they had found themselves in, and the room was appropriately wretched in kind. It was small, boasting only a single set of drawers, a cast iron hearth that looked as though it had not been swept since the storming of the Bastille, and a bed, the mattress of which appeared squalid and uncomfortable, and was no doubt covered in fleas. There was a strange smell in the air, damp creeping up the walls, and the one window was so filthy very little of the outside world could be glimpsed through it.

Certainly not the sort of accommodation Enjolras was accustomed to.

“It will only be temporary,” Grantaire supplied. “Until I can speak with some friends about finding us safe passage out of Paris.”

“Friends,” Enjolras echoed, his eyes staring but not seeing. “Of course. Might I ask what the point of this is, though?”

Grantaire frowned. “The point of what?”

“Of this. Of leaving that place alive.” Enjolras' voice was flat, devoid of any of its usual clarity and confidence, lacking enough that it made Grantaire's heart ache. The pain was still fresh to them both, still a raw wound upon their hearts. Enjolras' expression did not change. “I would have rather died there with dignity.”

Grantaire looked down at his feet, feeling physically sick. He stepped around him and ventured into the room, setting down their few belongings.

“A dignified death is a useless commodity, Enjolras,” he said, “It gets a man nothing. Here,” he opened up his bag, pulling a bundle of men's clothing from it and tossing it onto the bed. “Your disguise is important on the streets, but in here you ought to dress as yourself. It will help, I feel.”

Enjolras glanced at the clothes, lips pursed, and stepped at last over the threshold, closing the door behind him. He cast his gaze around the room again. “There is no screen for me to change behind,” he said.

“I will turn away,” Grantaire said, “And not look. I promise. I am wretch, but not such a scoundrel to deny you privacy.”

Enjolras hesitated. “Can we buy a screen?”

“With what money, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, the question coming a little more bluntly than he had intended. The absinthe-fuelled stupor he had been languishing under for the last week was finally lifting, leaving behind a splitting headache as a parting gift - it did not exactly endow him with much tact. Then again, tact had never been a virtue Grantaire was renowned for, even without pain to contend with. Enjolras did not react. He removed his straw sunbonnet, setting it on the chest of drawers, and then sat himself down on the mattress.

“How long must we do this?” He whispered.

“A few months at the most,” Grantaire said, starting to remove his cravat almost self-consciously. To be so underdressed in Enjolras' presence made heat rush up the back of his neck, into his face, a telling redness that he would rather not be seen. He turned away to continue working on the buttons of his waistcoat, listening to the mattress creak as Enjolras rose. The silence was unbearable. Enough to be deafening, Grantaire thought, and broken only by the soft sounds of Enjolras changing behind him. Grantaire heard heavy fabric hitting the floor as he shed his dress, heard the rustle of starched skirts and the laces of stays as they were loosened. It was utterly bizarre to him, having known Enjolras as he truly was for so long. Nothing of his female disguise suited him.

“I am dressed,” Enjolras announced at last, permitting Grantaire to turn around again. He wore only a shirt and trousers, the same layers Grantaire had stripped down to. It was understandable, given the season. The heat outside was stifling – even the breeze seemed hot. Grantaire thought it was a brutal irony that such good weather would come now, when a week prior their friends' had lost their gunpowder to a June downpour. He wondered if it would have made any difference – most likely not, he thought. Most likely it would have only prolonged the inevitable, drawing out the insurgents' position against the National Guard a day longer.

“You should rest now, then,” Grantaire advised, scooping Enjolras' dress up from its puddle on the floor. He would need it again, no doubt. They would need to keep it in fair condition.

“I will rest when I feel like resting,” Enjolras said, staring at the wall.

“You have not slept more than two hours at a time since the barricades,” Grantaire argued, “You have to try---”

“I will rest when I feel like resting,” Enjolras repeated, bestowing him a cold look. It was so hard and icy that Grantaire felt a chill run down his spine. _Does he blame me for saving his life, when he meant to die among them?_

Grantaire swallowed hard. He sat down beside him on the bed, and did not challenge him again. “Very well,” he said. “Tomorrow I will go to my old lodgings and collect what I can. I have some things there I may be able to pawn, to help with our finances.” He said it offhandedly, though in truth Grantaire had spent the last two days racking up a list in his head. His good pocket watch, his fine leather boots, the quality paintbrushes from his time studying under Gros, and a particularly princely looking tortoiseshell and silver snuffbox that would fetch a less princely but still respectable sum of money. It would be enough to get them by a month or two, enough to keep food in their bellies. When that ran out he would have to beg his father. He did not think that would come to much.

“I will leave the money we already have with you,” he added, glancing at Enjolras. “If I do not return before dark tomorrow, take it and get out of Paris, however you can. Your disguise might take you some way without being caught.”

Enjolras' brow creased. He looked at him, lost. “Why would you not be back by nightfall?”

“I am an accomplice to your escape, Enjolras,” Grantaire reminded him quietly. “It is possible there will be someone waiting to arrest me at my lodgings. That is why we cannot go back to yours – you are...were the leader. If you have been identified by anyone your rooms will have been the first to be searched. Even if there is no one there now I doubt they left anything of value behind – soldiers have families to feed, and anything leftover your landlord will likely have sold.”

Enjolras looked as though he had not even considered this fact. The furrow in his forehead grew deeper.

“You cannot go back, then,” he said. “You cannot risk it.”

“If I do not we starve, Enjolras. We have only a little money left; I spent more on your disguise than I would have liked. I know you are not used to being poor, and in truth neither am I – but you surely know enough to know that food costs money.”

“If you are arrested I will be alone.”

“You are fierce. You likely do not need a lout like myself anyway,” Grantaire said. He rose to busy himself with unpacking, surprised when he felt Enjolras' hand seize his wrist to stop him.

“Do not talk like that,” Enjolras said, at last in that tone of voice that Grantaire recognised – not a request at all, but an order. His grip on Grantaire's wrist did not let up. It made Grantaire's heart tremble in his chest. “You are all I have left.”

“I am sorry, then.” Grantaire said, “That must be quite a disappointment.”

“Do not go tomorrow.” Enjolras demanded. Grantaire inhaled sharply. “Please,” he added, as though suddenly aware of his own intensity.

“I have to,” Grantaire said again. “I will be careful.”

Enjolras looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then finally released his wrist. “See that you are,” he said.

-

Grantaire's expedition to his lodgings – cramped but nicely furnished rooms situated not far from the Musain – proved to be successful. The apartment was cold and empty upon his arrival, no National Guardsmen waiting to snatch him up. Most men might have looked upon the rooms and cried out with the utmost certainty: 'Monsieur, you have been robbed!', but the appalling state of the place was owed to Grantaire's own habits, rather than any ransacking. Still, he located all objects of any value and retrieved a few changes of clothes, including a pair of nightshirts so that Enjolras might have something comfortable to sleep in. He burnt any letters that might identify him, drained the last sour drops from the bottle of wine sitting on his bureau, and took his leave of the apartment for good. He did not harbour any sentimental attachment to the place – no, certainly not, it was little more than a place to sleep off his excesses - but as he closed the door behind him for the last time he realised that his life would never be the same again.

By the time he returned to his and Enjolras' miserable quarters in Montmartre he had already pawned the watch and the snuffbox, and with a little of the money had purchased a loaf of bread and some fine cheese. He hoped the gift might lift Enjolras' spirits. He might have squandered much of his earnings on drink, had he only himself to worry about - but some part of Grantaire, devoted, desperate, remained acutely aware that every coin might mean the difference between Enjolras' survival and his descent into wretchedness. He would never allow him to go hungry – not even if it meant Grantaire had to go thirsty.

“Here – eat,” he urged, offering Enjolras a piece of bread.

“I've no hunger about me,” Enjolras muttered, laying with his back to Grantaire on the bed.

Grantaire thought about pleading with him, but he knew that any petitions he made would likely fall upon deaf ears. Instead he set the bread down beside him, and said nothing more. It smelled good – freshly baked – and for all Enjolras said otherwise there was no way the man could not be hungry. He would eat when he was ready.

“I brought you a nightshirt, from my lodgings,” Grantaire said, taking a bite of bread. “It will be a little large on you, but it will surely be more comfortable than sleeping in your shirt and trousers.”

The two of them had passed an unpleasant night, confined to the small bed. Grantaire had never in all his life been so aware of his own breathing, so alert to his own movements whenever he rolled over or shifted beneath the sheets. The mattress was filled with straw, thinning in places. Bumpy, itchy. Grantaire had woken with a dozen flea bites on his arms and legs, and was certain he had stolen no more than an hour of sleep for himself. He doubted Enjolras had been any more successful.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, finally rolling over to look at him. His eyes were red, bleary, as though he had been crying. Grantaire had never seen him cry before, and a shameful part of him was glad he had not been present to witness it. It would shatter the illusion – the image that Enjolras was unshakeable. That fantasy had already suffered innumerable cracks since the barricade had fallen.

“Of course,” Grantaire croaked out, forcing a smile to his face. It felt like slipping on a mask.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some very sad, reasonably explicit sex...

**August, 1832. Paris.**

**-**

Grantaire had hoped that their forced cohabitation would become easier. It didn't.

At the very least, he had hoped that some of Enjolras' spirit might be restored to him with time. It wasn't.

He no longer stared at the walls, and he ate, slept, and combed his hair, but went through each function with an air of performance. Done, perhaps, to keep Grantaire from troubling him with his endless concerns.

It was a rare and remarkable thing that Grantaire had succeeded in holding himself together as long as he had. In his desperation to keep Enjolras alive he had grown to resemble something almost normal – almost respectable, even, though there was a constant tremor in his hands from the lack of drink, and his throat felt as dry as a desert. He rose at a reasonable hour each morning, dressed, and ventured to the market, where he purchased food and bid good day to each merchant he spoke to. When he was done with this he would often pay visit to his friend on the Rue des Acacias – an illicit bookseller, who through his profession knew well which gates in and out of Paris would be most favourable to Enjolras and Grantaire's plight. The man was discreet by nature of his career, and Grantaire had purchased many a questionable tome from him over the years. Now he purchased an escape from Paris

Though he had no head for sums Grantaire had become accountant to his and Enjolras' scant fortunes of late, and even he could see they were depleting rapidly. He had written to his father a week prior, begging for assistance, but thus far had received no reply. He wondered what they might do if they found themselves truly destitute. He could find work, most likely – he was strong, from years of boxing and dancing, and not in bad health. He could sell his labour, find employment somewhere – but that would mean leaving Enjolras alone much of the time, alone to wallow in his grief. Grantaire did not want to do that.

-

It felt as though Grantaire had been holding onto a rope for months, gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain as it sliced into his palms. At last, in the dead of night, it had snapped - and the recoil was enough to level Grantaire to the ground. The nightmare had been vividly real. Though he had slept through the fall of the barricade he must have heard it all, for his dreams were haunted by the crack of gunfire, the bellow of cannons. He could smell smoke and hear the screams, voices he was sure he could pick out as his friends. Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel. Feuilly? _'Vive l'avenir!'_ – Prouvaire.

He had woken with a start, shirt soaked with sweat and his whole body trembling violently. He lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, fingers itching for the familiar feel of a bottle, and then rolled onto his side and began to sob.

It was unfair. Life was a wretched and worthless thing, and Grantaire's friends had been among the few saving graces of this ugly, cruel joke of a world. They had deserved to be merry and drunk, to see the future he knew they could not grasp, to live long lives and grow old and grey. But they were dead, blown apart by grapeshot and butchered by bayonets. Grantaire had always known there was nothing fair or good to be had out of life, but never had life gone to such lengths to prove him right. He wanted a drink. More than ever. His throat felt as though it was on fire. He sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed – until he felt a hand against his shoulder.

It made him cease his crying, turning his head to see Enjolras staring at him through the darkness. The little moonlight pouring into the room from the window made visible his features, softened by silver and etched into a look of concern. He did not seem to know what to say to him. He squeezed Grantaire's shoulder gently in lieu of words. It was the longest they had ever touched, Grantaire realised, rolling over to face him. They were close on the mattress – almost too close, breathing in the same clammy air. Grantaire could have leaned forwards and kissed him, had the notion taken him. The notion always took him, in truth, but he doubted it would be returned, and would only see him banished from the bed. He did not move. Enjolras' eyes lingered on his for a while, searching, curious in a way that Grantaire could not fathom, and then he released his shoulder and placed his hand flat against Grantaire's chest, a silent gesture of comfort so unexpectedly tender that it made Grantaire want to weep again.

It remained there for a while, Enjolras likely feeling Grantaire's heartbeat racing under his palm, and then, Grantaire noticed, began to venture downwards. It was so slow and cautious at first that Grantaire did not quite believe it was happening, but when he felt Enjolras' fingers slip beneath his shirt and brush the coarse hair beneath his navel it became apparent that it _was_ happening, but that certainly Grantaire must have been dreaming it. Perhaps he was not awake after all – it had happened before that he had woken from one dream into another. That was surely it, for Enjolras could not, in any world, be touching him as he now was. But it felt real – real enough to make Grantaire doubt. Enjolras' nails scratched lightly against his skin, and his breath came fast and shaky.

And then his hand was on him – and Grantaire was already hard as a rock. It was Enjolras' inexperience that made Grantaire realise what was happening was real, for if he had fantasised him then he would surely be adept in the art of pleasure. Enjolras did not quite seem to know what to do with what was now in his hand, every touch as much about exploration as it was about passion. Grantaire was quite content to let him educate himself using his body – even clumsy as it was it felt divine. So divine, in fact, that without any thought Grantaire hitched up the bottom of Enjolras' nightshirt so that he might touch him in return. In his haste to get his hand on him he almost forgot that his anatomy was not what was to be expected. Grantaire felt him startle and thought to hastily withdraw, but then Enjolras was parting his legs ever so slightly to allow his touch, holding him there with his free hand, a silent encouragement to continue.

They went on that way for some time, silent but for sharp breaths and stifled sounds, and then Enjolras was on his back, dragging Grantaire with him, on top of him. There was no discussion regarding what happened next – nothing but a significant look passed between them as Enjolras felt Grantaire position himself between his legs, the slightest nod of his head. Grantaire leaned down to kiss his neck, afraid of his lips, shivering as he felt Enjolras guide him with his hand towards a destination that left utterly no question about what was to happen.

He was ready for him - Grantaire could feel his wetness on the tip of himself, warm, inviting, something he had not known for far longer than he cared to admit. Just like that he was lost, all sense of reason taking flight. It was not until he was already halfway inside him that Grantaire remembered Enjolras had never known a man in such a way – the slight sting of his nails digging into Grantaire's shoulders reminded him. He stopped, slowed, eased himself into him as gently as his frayed nerves would allow, and heard Enjolras gasp against his ear. The feel of him was maddening, dizzying, intoxicating. It was good. The pleasure, yes, but everything that accompanied it, too; the feel of another body against his own, breathing, trembling, the beating of another heart, assurance that he was not alone in this world after all. It was what he had needed, he realised. Not to bed someone, but to be held. To be close to another human being. To feel alive - to know he truly was.

If Grantaire had not already known Enjolras to be a virgin, then the act itself would have cleared up any doubt on the matter; he did not know what to do with himself. His hands were everywhere - in confusion, not passion. In Grantaire's hair, against his shoulders, halfway down his back. His legs, too – one hooked over Grantaire's hip, then almost flat, then further apart than could be comfortable to maintain. He had no notion of how it worked. But he was willing, there was no fearing otherwise. Grantaire would have stopped if he had even the slightest inclination that Enjolras did not wish for it. No, he was cooperative, and plenty eager enough to assuage Grantaire's doubts. He arched up to meet each thrust and wriggled to try and make Grantaire's task easier, and the sounds he was making held the faintest trace of pleasure, as though it felt good but he could not quite work out what was best.

Grantaire would have liked to help him find out, but he was not granted the opportunity - he came to the quick of it in barely any time at all. It rushed over him unexpectedly, with no chance to withdraw; a hot flash of pleasure that was dulled by the misery consuming him from the inside out. He did not count the number of thrusts – what man did, but one with an ego bigger than his member? - but it was over so swiftly that in any other circumstances Grantaire would have shrunk away in embarrassment. It was rather fortunate that it was Enjolras beneath him, whom it was safe to assume did not know what constituted a short or long sexual encounter. The poor man must have found the experience wholly underwhelming, judging from the look on his face – not pained or uncomfortable at all, but somewhat bewildered, as though he was not altogether sure of the reason for Grantaire's sudden huffing and groaning.

For a few moments Grantaire could not move, could not function beyond letting the last shudders of his climax run their course. And then he collapsed on top of Enjolras, exhausted, not only from the act but from everything that had led up to it. From the barricades, from the drink, from the grief, from hardly sleeping since that terrible dawn. It had taken everything out of him. Apparently even his sexual stamina.

It was only as he lay there, breathing hotly against Enjolras' neck, that the fog of his mind began to clear and what had happened began to sink in. He had made love to Enjolras – and not the passionate, pleasurable love he had, admittedly, fantasised about making to him in the past. It had been sad, lonely, pitiful, and surely unsatisfying. It had been a mockery of the feelings he had for him. It had been sacrilege. Enjolras, lying beneath him, did not say a word.

His breathing was starting to slow, but his hands were still gripping Grantaire's shoulders, where he had eventually settled on placing them. Grantaire swallowed the bile in his throat and disentangled himself, already half soft by the time he pulled out of him; he heard Enjolras make a little sound of discomfort as he did. Finally two separate souls once more Grantaire flopped down onto his back beside him, staring up at the crackled ceiling again. The thought crossed his mind that he ought to reach over and touch Enjolras as he had before, to guide him to completion with a few artful strokes of his thumb. It was not right, he thought, to leave one partner unfinished. Grantaire had never left these matters unresolved before. And yet, as he contemplated this, he felt that the air between them had turned icy despite the summer heat. The moment had passed, and Grantaire feared if he tried to lay a hand on Enjolras now he would recoil in disgust or bat him away, and the thought of such rejection made the sickening feeling in his stomach grow tenfold, until it sat in his gut like a stone. He wanted to. Desperately so. He wanted to bring him to the edge of bliss and then send him careening over it, wanted to see pleasure on Enjolras' face after seeing nothing but pain for the last few months.

But Grantaire was a coward, and touching Enjolras felt like touching an open flame - so instead he did nothing.

He wondered what was to follow now. Grantaire knew what he would have _liked _to follow – he longed to gather Enjolras into his arms, to hold him, to kiss him until all the love Grantaire harboured for him in his heart seeped into him and made him feel safe. It was wrong, what they had just done. Enjolras had instigated it, had encouraged it, had participated in it – and yet Grantaire felt he had crossed some dreadful line. They were both broken. It was not right to make love when both parties were in countless pieces. They were shattered, the two of them, and had come together to feel whole for a handful of minutes. But now it was over and they were in fragments once again. And Grantaire felt sick.

He turned his head on his pillow to look at Enjolras beside him. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow. He was asleep, or else very skilled at pretending to be.

Grantaire felt as though he had done him a great disservice - as though he had soiled him irrevocably. It was not as others would perhaps think – he did not feel that he had _taken_ something from Enjolras. Virginity, purity - it was a concept Grantaire had never held to. A person's worth was not diminished by such acts. But Grantaire fancied himself a disease, a melancholy thing that spread under the skin of anyone he touched like a sickness - and Enjolras did not deserve to be infected by him.

_Never touch him again_, Grantaire told himself. _Never touch him again._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for vomiting in this chapter!

The morning light was harsh, cutting through the gaps in the shutters and stinging Grantaire's eyes. Following what had happened with Enjolras he had fallen into a deep slumber – the sort that could be mistaken for death, the sort that only followed sex. It was the first time he had slept more than a few hours since the barricade had fallen. Enjolras, miraculously, was still asleep beside him. It appeared their lovemaking had had at least one positive effect on both of them.

Grantaire sat up, limbs stiff from lying on the old mattress, and watched him sleep for a few moments. He was glorious – the muse of an old Renaissance master, the subject of an epic Greek poem. Grantaire should never have put his hands on him. Part of him hoped it had been a dream after all, but there was a telling mark on Enjolras' neck that Grantaire had put there, and his nightgown was still ruched up, exposing him in a manner most indignant. Grantaire thought about reaching forwards to adjust it, to spare Enjolras his pride, but before he could do so Enjolras stirred, blinking awake slowly. He looked at Grantaire for a long moment, as though it were any other morning, and then appeared to recall the events of the night before. Colour rose in his cheeks, face reddening in a way that would have been charming to behold had Grantaire not felt sick to his stomach. He scrambled to regain his modesty, pulling his nightshirt back down, and averted his gaze shamefully.

Grantaire left the bed, his insides in knots. “I am sorry,” he said. The words came without much thought – much like he had.

“Sorry?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said, “For my comportment last night – or, rather, my lack thereof.”

Enjolras was quiet for a moment. “Let us not talk about it,” he said eventually. Grantaire swallowed hard.

“Very well,” he agreed, crossing the room to the jug of water and chipped bowl that was sitting on top of the drawers. He took a cloth – a rag, perhaps more accurately - and soaked it, wringing it out before turning and offering it to Enjolras. He stared at it blankly.

“What is that for?” he asked.

“To clean yourself.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Is that something I need to do?”

“No – I – well, I mean...” Grantaire dipped his head in embarrassment. “You do not need to, but...” _But you must surely wish to wash the smell of me off you. _“Well, it was a warm night. No doubt it would be pleasant to wash.”

Enjolras did not reply - but took the rag. Grantaire turned away to dress himself, listening to Enjolras shifting on the mattress.

“I hope that I did not hurt you,” he said, despite Enjolras' request not to discuss it. The thought that he might have caused him any pain at all was unbearable.

“Not particularly,” Enjolras said, with such detachment it was almost impossible to believe they were discussing the same thing. “There was a sting to begin with, but it passed soon enough. Again, let us not talk of it. Though---” he broke off, uncertain.

“Though?”

“Is it always over so quickly?”

Grantaire flushed, shirt halfway over his head. It would have been easy to spare his ego with a lie, he thought, but even with his spirit wounded by the events on the barricade Enjolras possessed such an intensely candid soul that lying to him felt like blasphemy.

“No, it isn't,” he admitted, donning his waistcoat. “But I was very tired, from the last few weeks. I have not been sleeping.”

“Neither have I,” Enjolras said quietly. “I do not know if I ever will again.” His tone became dark, melancholy in a way that Grantaire had never heard from him before. Perhaps he had not been wrong, in feeling as though he infected those around him. Perhaps now, having absorbed Grantaire's touch, Enjolras would grow to be as he was – small, grey, shrinking in his own shadow until he barely felt there at all. Grantaire prayed not.

“I will go and fetch breakfast,” he said, hoping to lift Enjolras' mood with the promise of food. Their cohabitation, however forced and uncomfortable, had started to incur the almost pleasant side-effect of familiarity; Grantaire now knew what Enjolras liked and did not like, what foods he found tempting and what caused him to turn up his nose. Since their flight to Montmartre coaxing him to eat had been a challenge, but in the last month he had revealed himself to have a sweet tooth, and now Grantaire approached each meal armed with pastries of all kinds.

“Very well.” Enjolras said. “Do not be long.”

Grantaire finished pulling up his trousers, turning to look at him. He was sitting up in bed, hair falling freely about his shoulders, positioned so artfully as to reveal the mark on his neck that it could have looked intentional, had Enjolras any notion of seduction. He was enticing, captivating - but Grantaire was very certain he was unaware of it. Seeing him there, messy and sleep-worn, wearing nothing but the soiled nightshirt Grantaire had lifted up to his waist to make love to him the night before – it was enough to drive a man out of his wits. Soft, almost domestic. Grantaire looked away again. Gazing upon Enjolras felt like staring too long into the sun.

“I won't be,” he promised, reaching for his shoes.

-

**September, 1832.**

-

“Is there anything at all that I can do?”

Enjolras' response – if he had intended one - was stifled by another horrible retching sound, his head disappearing back into the bucket. Grantaire winced. He had woken before dawn to the sound of Enjolras scrambling hastily out of bed, barely making it to the chamberpot before he had relinquished the paltry contents of his stomach. When it became clear the vomiting would not let up Grantaire had ventured out into the hall in nought but his nightshirt, fortunate enough to find a tin pail resting by the backdoor. It was likely intended for laundry, and no doubt some irritated washerwoman would come hammering on their door before long, but it had served well enough.

It had been an hour now, and though Enjolras had barely anything left to evacuate he continued to heave violently, clutching the bucket to his chest as he sat shivering on the bed. Grantaire did not know what to do. What would happen if Enjolras was ill? They could not afford a doctor. Even if they could, Grantaire knew that Enjolras would refuse to be seen. The thought of him wasting away before his eyes, the thought of being helpless to stop it – Grantaire could not bear it.

A few agonizingly long minutes passed, and finally Enjolras' body ceased its efforts to expel his insides. He spat into the pail, grimacing at the taste in his mouth.

“It was that fish,” he said, taking Grantaire by surprise.

“Fish?”

“Yes – that you brought back from Les Halles. I thought it tasted odd. Bitter.”

“It tasted perfectly fine to me,” Grantaire argued.

Enjolras shook his head. “It was bitter. And it has clearly disagreed with me.”

Grantaire did not protest further, though he thought it quite unlikely. Surely if that were the case he would be sharing that bucket with him?

“Perhaps you ought to sleep,” Grantaire suggested, “I will go and fetch firewood. It is starting to get colder.”

“Another expense we cannot afford,” Enjolras muttered. He stared darkly into the pail, clutching at it so tightly his knuckles turned white. “What will we do, when the money runs out?”

Grantaire had been wondering that himself. He tried to affect a look of confidence anyway. “I will find work,” he said. “I am strong, robust. There are plenty of places I might find employment.”

Enjolras closed his eyes. “When will we leave Paris?”

“When we can afford it. My parents will surely respond to my letter soon...” Grantaire had been telling himself that for a month now. “Then we will go.”

Enjolras nodded. He expelled a deep breath through his nose.

“I don't know how that makes me feel,” he confessed. “I will miss Paris. She is part of me. But at the same time, I cannot wait to see the back of her. I want to be gone. I want to forget.”

Grantaire's insides curdled so horribly that for a moment he thought he might have to take Enjolras' bucket for himself.

“I know,” he said. A moment of courage took him, and he reached to lay one hand gently over Enjolras'. He startled at the contact but did not recoil. “So do I.”

-

**October, 1832.**

-

When Grantaire opened the door Enjolras was not where he had expected to find him. At this time of day Grantaire had imagined he would still be hunched up in bed, where he had spent the better part of the morning curled up on his side with a bucket close at hand. It had become almost routine, of late. A month had passed since he had first become ill, and still Enjolras would end up with his head in the bucket several times a day without fail, shuddering through the ordeal as Grantaire held back his hair.

When Grantaire had left to retrieve the post that afternoon he had been drifting in and out of sleep, exhausted from retching, but now Grantaire found him dressed and awake, standing by the window and gazing down onto the busy street.

“You are out of bed,” Grantaire said, almost without meaning to. Enjolras did not look at him.

“Well observed,” he said. His voice was cold.

Grantaire shrugged off his coat, tossing it onto the bed. “And you are dressed,” he added, removing his cap.

“I am.”

“Why?”

Enjolras did not answer, turning to face him. His eyes were icy, his lips pulled into a hard line.

“We have a problem,” he announced.

Grantaire frowned. “If it is a lack of funds then I bring good news,” he said, fishing the letter from inside his waistcoat and holding it up for him to see. “My mother has taken pity on me. She has managed to convince my father to send us a modest sum of money. We can leave Paris.”

“Good – we need to,” Enjolras said. “Urgently.”

He was trembling, Grantaire realised suddenly - holding himself and shaking. It could not be the cold, for he had set a fire burning in the hearth before he left.

“Enjolras,” he said, “What is wrong?”

Enjolras made a strangled sound, starting to pace as much as one could in a room so small. “You,” he said bitterly. “It is you. You've done this to me.”

Grantaire felt like he had been slapped. “_Me_?” he whispered. Though he did not know precisely what Enjolras spoke of he was not inclined to disagree. If Enjolras was unhappy in some way it was not at all surprising that it would be Grantaire's doing.

“Yes, you,” Enjolras said. He stopped, shooting him a hard, measured look. “I have not bled in months.”

Grantaire blinked. For a moment the meaning of his words did not land, and he was left staring dumbly at him, trying to fathom how that could possibly be his fault. And then it hit him, with such force that Grantaire could scarcely believe it did not knock him off his feet.

“You – you are---”

“Yes.” Enjolras confirmed. He looked away. “I know very little of these things, but I know the signs, at least. My mother told me of them.”

Grantaire could not speak. It was not possible, surely? Enjolras must have been mistaken. There were reasons that dogs and cats could not produce offspring together. Joly had told him about it, when reading of the doctor Leacock and his experiments with transfusions. It was the same principle. Animals of a different species could not breed, just as they could not mix blood - and certainly, there were no souls on this earth that differed more than he and Enjolras.

“Are you sure?” he asked, when his voice finally returned to him. Enjolras glared at him.

“You doubt me?”

“No. But it should not be possible.”

Enjolras' expression did not change. “It has happened anyway.”

Grantaire sat down on the bed, fearful that he would collapse if he remained standing. “My god,” he said, staring at the wall. “You are right. This is my doing.”

Grantaire had never liked himself, though he was certain he was not the first person to feel that way. He did not like his face, too much like his father's, and he did not like his soul, which appeared to him as unsightly as his looks - a deformed, ugly shadow. But this – this was perhaps the first time Grantaire had truly hated himself. He had not infected Enjolras at all – far worse than that. He had played the part of some wretched incubus, recklessly spending his seed and putting a curse in Enjolras' belly. This ill-begotten thing in his stomach was the worst thing Grantaire had ever done. It was unforgivable. 

“What will we do?” He whispered.

Enjolras was quiet for a moment. “I know there are certain teas that may be procured,” he said, voice small.

“There are,” Grantaire said. “But I would not recommend them. I used to fight singlestick with a gentleman whose mistress bled to death as a result of them.”

“Not that, then.” Enjolras decided.

Grantaire felt the mattress dip as he sat down beside him, far enough away that Grantaire could not touch him even if he had been bold enough to try.

“There are doctors, midwives,” Grantaire ventured, “People who can...solve the problem. We could afford that, now that my father is to send us money...”

“No.” Enjolras said. His voice was resolute. “I will not see any doctor. Not – not with my – I could not bear it.”

“Then what options are left?”

“Only one,” Enjolras said. “I shall simply have to birth the thing and send it to a home for foundlings.”

Grantaire felt his stomach turn. He closed his eyes, wanting to weep. “I am sorry,” he said. “Truly. I – I will do my best by you, however I can.”

“Good.” Enjolras murmured. “You will have to marry me.”

Grantaire turned his head towards him, stunned. “As a precaution,” Enjolras elaborated, when he saw Grantaire's surprise. “Even if I have no desire to keep the child, I cannot – well, I do not want to risk being seen as an unwed mother. Perhaps if I write to my parents using elopement to excuse my absence they might send us an allowance.”

Grantaire nodded. Marriage was not something he had ever foreseen in his future, nor even contemplated. It seemed a miserable undertaking to him, and with his drinking and gambling he would no doubt make a poor husband. He had sworn off the whole thing, considering it a kindness to the entire female population that he live and die a shameless bachelor. And yet it was not a woman he was to wed at all – it was a man. It was Enjolras, radiant and resplendent. Enjolras, who was to be shackled to him for the remainder of his life, bound in an indissoluble contract that would strip him of his autonomy, of his liberty – the very thing he had been willing to die for.

All because Grantaire had touched a distant star - and then finished too quickly. Yes, Grantaire truly hated himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, tiny bit of misgendering of Enjolras here. But he's in disguise, so not really misgendering as much as just a very convincing disguise :P

**October, 1832.**

**-**

It was raining when they left Paris, a storm sitting heavily in the belly of the clouds. Though the weather did little to lift their spirits it was, in truth, a blessing in disguise. Nobody wished to stall a carriage at the city gates longer than necessary under such a downpour, and as they passed through the Porte de Charenton they were stopped for no longer than a moment.

“We are newlyweds,” Grantaire explained to the toll guard, forcing a smile to his face. “We are going to visit family in the Midi, following our recent nuptials.”

“Congratulations, Monsieur," the guard said. "And safe travels." He glanced at Enjolras, hiding his face beneath a bonnet, and nodded politely. “Madame,” he said, before waving to the driver to signal for him to carry on.

Grantaire as good as held his breath until the city was behind them, fading into a hazy grey shape in the distance. As the walls of Paris at last bled out of view he sighed, closing his eyes as relief shuddered through him. “There we have it. We are safe,” he said. “No one will come looking for us.”

“You are sure of that?” Enjolras asked, pulling off his bonnet.

“Quite. Believe me, Enjolras – we are not worth the effort.”

Enjolras cast him an uncertain look but did not disagree. He removed the pins from his hair, letting it fall loose, and turned to gaze out of the window at the rain.

“I feel as though I have carved out my own heart and left it behind,” he whispered. Grantaire did not know what to say, and so said nothing at all, sitting silently as the coach rattled along, the whole thing jostling now and then on the rough road.

“Where are we to, then?” Enjolras asked after a long while, head still turned.

“There is a small town half a day South-west of Paris,” Grantaire supplied. “A friend of mine suggested it to me. He grew up there. It is quiet, and if anyone should ask about us I am to tell them I am his cousin, from Rouen.”

“Where will we stay?”

“He gave me the name of a landlord. A Monsieur Allard. He has written to him on our behalf, and secured our lodgings.”

Enjolras hummed thoughtfully. “We will need to be married as soon as we arrive.”

“I will see about posting the banns when we get there,” Grantaire promised. Enjolras nodded.

-

By the time they entered the town it had grown dark, the coachman having to slow the horses as they traversed the narrow country roads with only the oil lamps at the front of the carriage to guide their way. Candles flickered in the windows of some of the houses, faint little beacons of light in the blackness. Grantaire glanced over at Enjolras beside him. He appeared to be sleeping, though it was difficult to tell. He had put his bonnet back on halfway through their journey, as though to hide himself, and in the pitch black of the carriage Grantaire could not see his face to be certain. As the dark outskirts of the town gave way to a busier, more well-lit cobbled street Grantaire leaned across to look out of the window. The town was small, but did not lack for charm, and was not so tiny as to be without amenities. They passed a tailor, a pâtisserie, a bookseller. An inn – an inn that served wine, no doubt. Grantaire licked his lips, clenching his hands into fists. He had not tasted the sweet, senseless bliss of insobriety in months. He missed the warm, pleasant nothingness that drink put a man under, and had to fight the urge to ask the driver to stop right there in the middle of the street. He could not simply alight the coach and leave Enjolras alone to go and drown his thoughts.

Finally the carriage came to a lurching stop – violent enough that if Enjolras had been asleep he would surely not be any longer. He turned to look at Grantaire, a few curls falling in front of his eyes. Even then it was impossible to tell whether or not he had been sleeping. The door opened, and the coachman pulled out the steps to allow them down. Grantaire went first, offering Enjolras his hand. He did not take it, disembarking without assistance and stumbling a little on his skirts. If the coachman thought it odd that Grantaire's supposed bride recoiled from his touch, he did not show it. Likely he saw plenty of unhappy couples in his profession, Grantaire thought.

“We are outside an inn,” Enjolras said, stating the obvious.

“Yes,” Grantaire agreed.

“Where are our lodgings? Here?”

“Above a bakery, I believe,” Grantaire said, tipping the driver as he unloaded their single trunk of belongings from the back of the carriage. “I am told Monsieur Allard will meet us at the inn.”

Enjolras stiffened. “Are you certain that is wise?”

Grantaire did not fail to ascertain his meaning, and wondered if his eagerness had rendered itself so transparent. He swallowed hard, averting his gaze. “Here,” he said, digging into his coat pocket and handing his coin purse over to Enjolras. “Take this. I cannot promise you a sober marriage, but a sober wedding day is not beyond the realm of possibility.”

Enjolras shot him a disapproving look and took it from him without hesitation, placing it inside the velvet reticule he was carrying with him. The last purchase Grantaire had made before leaving Paris was a new disguise for Enjolras, the reticule and bonnet included in that. Though he was not far into his condition he had complained of feeling bloated, and the dress they had originally procured in Paris no longer fit. Even the one he wore now clung a little too tightly around his abdomen, but it had been the best they could do at short notice. It had belonged to a woman who had died some twenty years ago, purchased from her widower, who had retained it out of sentiment but was now remarrying. As it was, the dress was horribly out of fashion, and even Enjolras, who had no care for such things, had grimaced at the sight of it. The reticule had come with it, the bonnet for a small sum extra.

-

The inn was busy, bustling with townsfolk, evidently the hub of any life after dark in the small town. It was warm inside, with two hearths burning, and the smell of food and tobacco permeated the air. A bawdy singer, the likes of which would not have been out of place in one of the _goguettes_ of Paris, was belting out his rendition of _La Carmagnole_ from atop a table as people danced. The song made Enjolras tense at Grantaire's side - he grabbed his arm, so unexpectedly that Grantaire jolted at the contact.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“He will be here soon,” Grantaire said. “I was told to look for a man in a blue tailcoat.”

As they wove through the throng of people they passed a large group of men, already drunk, leering at a serving girl as they puffed on their pipes. Enjolras wrinkled his nose, and then turned frighteningly pale.

“The tobacco. The smell,” he said, covering his mouth with one hand. “I feel my stomach sickening again.”

Not wanting to cause him any discomfort Grantaire led him towards a table by the window, struggling to open it so that Enjolras could breathe the cold autumn air. He took a few deep breaths, closing his eyes, and then bestowed Grantaire a surprisingly grateful look.

“Thank you,” he said. Grantaire nodded, setting down their trunk beside the table.

Enjolras stared out of the window for a while, though it was so dark outside that surely very little could be seen. “You said the room is above a bakery?” he asked.

“Yes,” Grantaire said. “The rent is fair, and I am assured it is quite nice.”

“Hm.” Enjolras pursed his lips. “It will smell of food all the time,” he said.

“Surely that is better than whatever smell was lingering in the room in Paris?”

Enjolras frowned. “Lately I smell everything more intensely. Even pleasant odours turn my stomach.”

Grantaire looked down at the table. He felt he should have known that. He had been twelve when his mother had become pregnant with his youngest sister, and he recalled much of that time with clarity. She had been forever asking him to close the windows to keep out the smell of manure from the next field over. Why had he not considered that, before accepting the room?

“I am sorry,” he said. Enjolras did not reply; his eyes went to somewhere over Grantaire's shoulder. “Do you think that's him?” he asked.

Grantaire turned to look at the man in question. Tall, strongly-built for his years, wearing a handsome blue tailcoat and talking with the man behind the bar. That was surely him, Grantaire thought. He rose from his seat and approached him.

“Monsieur Allard?”

The gentleman looked him over once. “Monsieur Grantaire, I presume?”

“Yes. My cousin wrote to you, I believe, about a room..."

“Indeed he did,” Allard said, his expression knowing. “It is strange, you know. Until he made mention of you in his last correspondence I had no recollection of Jacques having ever had a cousin in Rouen.”

“I suppose I have simply never come up in conversation.”

“Clearly not. Come, then – let us sit down and discuss it,” Allard urged, pointing Grantaire back over to his table. As they took their seats Grantaire could not help but notice that his gaze lingered a little too long on Enjolras, who turned his head away and pulled his pereline tighter around his shoulders.

“And who is this?” He asked.

“My fiancée,” Grantaire introduced. It was not a lie, after all.

“Fiancée?” Allard looked from Enjolras to Grantaire. “With child, I presume?”

Grantaire felt his mouth drop open. “I---how did you---”

“It is easy to guess. I mean no disrespect, Monsieur, but I cannot think of any other reason such a beautiful young thing would be marrying you,” Allard said bluntly. “You clearly aren't a rich man, if you're taking on my room.” Grantaire's ego was not easily bruised by such remarks, but to his surprise Enjolras appeared to take umbrage with it.

“We were engaged before I came to be with child,” he said tersely, a lie Grantaire imagined was to spare Enjolras his dignity. “And I would thank you, Monsieur, to recall your manners.”

Allard dipped his head, hand on his heart. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle,” he said. “I find often that after a few drinks my mouth moves without restraint,” he looked to Grantaire. “To the business at hand, then. You are already aware of the price of the room, yes?”

“Indeed. It is very reasonable.”

“Yes, well, it comes with a caveat Jacques likely neglected to mention,” Allard said. “I have an agreement with Monsieur Labelle – the baker. I owe him a good deal of money, you see. The man is a devil at Écarté. You are to take on the lease under the condition you help him with the heavy lifting. Bags of grain and the like.”

“Oh,” Grantaire blinked. “Of course.”

“Good. And on the subject, there will be an added fee for a babe,” Allard gestured to Enjolras as though he were not there. “They are noisy, people will not want to live in the apartments next door. It'll cost extra. Jacques made no mention of it."

“Very well,” Grantaire muttered. It was not worth explaining Enjolras' plans for the child. They would merely say it did not survive, when the time came. Monsieur Allard did not need to know the uncertain future that awaited the babe somewhere in a home for foundlings.

-

The room was, mercifully, a vast improvement on their quarters in Montmartre. It was a little bigger, boasting more furniture. There was a large armoire and a desk, as well as a mirror above the fireplace. The bed sported two mattresses, not too poor in their condition, and in the corner of the room, folded to save space and leaning against the wall, there stood a plain wooden screen, which upon sighting produced a little sound of relief from Enjolras.

“This is a little better, is it not?” Grantaire said, already going about lighting a fire in the hearth. Enjolras opened their trunk to retrieve his nightshirt.

“It is,” he agreed, disappearing behind the screen to change. “Do you think you will be required often, with the baker?”

“I've not a clue,” Grantaire said, piling on kindling. “I have never worked for a baker before. Perhaps I shall come home with a talent for pastry making,” he joked. “What is it you like, again? Clafouti?”

There was a beat of silence from behind the screen. “Yes,” Enjolras said eventually, sounding surprised that he had remembered. Grantaire cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Anyway,” he began. “I can't imagine it will be too often. Will you be alright here, by yourself?”

“I believe so.” With that Enjolras at last emerged from his hiding place, hair falling everywhere and dressed in only his stockings and nightshirt. Grantaire was sure he would never get used to the sight. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment Grantaire was certain he saw a tinge of pink colour Enjolras' cheeks. It passed in an instant, and he lifted up the covers and slid into the bed. The noise that left him as he did was practically obscene.

“I have forgotten what it is like to sleep in moderate comfort,” he said, wriggling under the sheets. Grantaire managed a smile. They had supped at the inn following Monsieur Allard's departure - a hearty stew the innkeeper's wife had cooked. It had been almost heartbreaking to see how ravenously Enjolras had scarfed it down, perhaps the first hot meal he had enjoyed in months. Now, with a bed that did not make his limbs ache and a full stomach, he appeared almost content.

A pity, Grantaire thought, that his nightmares would only rouse him again in a few hours. They always did. 


	5. Chapter 5

**October 16th, 1832.**

-

The church was cold. So cold that Grantaire could see his breath as it left his lips. It was a bitter morning, the first frost of the year settling over the sleepy little town they were now forced to call home. Grantaire was shivering even in his tailcoat. He imagined Enjolras, with only a thin woolen pelerine to cover his shoulders, was feeling it even worse. Grantaire had tried to be nice, had offered him his coat, but Enjolras had apparently misinterpreted the gesture as chivalry – perhaps even a dismissal of his gender – and recoiled from it with rancour. Grantaire did not know how to make him understand that he was not trying to be a gentlemanly groom, merely a kind one. The only warmth came from the sunlight pouring down onto them through the stained glass. It dappled the stone floor of the church with colour and danced in Enjolras' hair, turning it into a rainbow of reds, purples, and blues.

Not only was the church cold, but also empty, only a few parishioners standing by to bear witness to their union. They had been offered nuptial mass, with all the accompanying fanfare, but Enjolras had rightly balked at the thought of a crowd, of hymns and homilies and kneeling to take communion. And so here they were, half an hour after morning mass had ended, standing side by side in a church so quiet Grantaire imagined he could have heard the rats scurrying about in the vestry if he strained his ears. It was better this way. Why make a spectacle of it? It was a marriage only on paper. Surely it would be sacrilege to pretend otherwise? If a higher power did exist then Grantaire, though not a godly man, did not wish to antagonise it further than his life of wretchedness and vice already had. Not if it could be avoided, anyway. Even the priest was looking upon them with disapproval; no doubt the slight swell of Enjolras' stomach beneath his dress left no doubt as to the reason for their rushed nuptials. Grantaire watched in silence as he blessed the rings – two cheap pinchbeck bands he had purchased from the same widower he had procured his wedding coat from. The most foolish notion had come over Grantaire two days before the ceremony; that of needing to look good. The waistcoat he had been wearing for weeks smelled of sweat, smoke, and wine, and he did not feel it appropriate to be married in the same outfit he had worn on the barricade. He had bought a handsome tailcoat and silk cravat for a modest price for the occasion, and was surprised by how well the coat fit. Grantaire was sure his outfit did painfully little to impress Enjolras, who showed no emotion even as they exchanged their vows.

_He hates me,_ Grantaire thought, seeing the resignation behind his eyes as the ring was slipped onto his finger. _He hates me, and now he is tied to me._

When it was over they did not kiss. Grantaire would have never dared be so bold. They signed the registry, Enjolras doing so as though he were signing the order for his own execution, and then left the church arm in arm to the sound of the bells chiming for their union.

“It is done then,” Enjolras said flatly, extricating his arm from Grantaire's. “You as good as own me, now.”

Grantaire's stomach turned at his words. “That is not so,” he said. “Rather it is you that owns me.” It was perhaps the closest Grantaire had ever come to speaking the truth of his feelings, and the words earned him a perplexed scowl from Enjolras. Grantaire did not elaborate.

“Perhaps we ought to go for lunch somewhere?” He said instead. “It is our wedding day, after all. One usually celebrates. I know that is not the case for us, but still – would lunch not be pleasant?”

“No,” Enjolras said, pulling his pelerine tighter around himself. He was still shivering. “I will not be able to keep anything down. Besides which, I would be alone a while.” With that he strode off ahead through the cold churchyard, disappearing through the gates and leaving Grantaire behind.

-

Grantaire had not intended it, just as he had not intended most of the poor decisions he had made over the course of his life. He had gone to the inn only for food, seeking something warm to sit in his stomach. He had found gin instead. It was warm enough, he supposed, burning in his belly like hot coals. One dram and then another, and another still to keep that one company. By the time it was growing dark outside he had rather lost count. Enjolras' rejection in the churchyard had stung, though Grantaire realised he should have expected nothing different. Enjolras was certainly entitled to his feelings, now bound to a man he disdained, a man not fit to polish his boots.

“I have seen freshly gelded horses look more cheerful than you, Monsieur!”

Grantaire startled out of his thoughts, turning his head in the direction of the voice that had interrupted them. Two gentlemen had approached the bar to refill their cups, sliding onto the stools beside him. They were polar opposites, one tall and lean, the other short and portly. As they took their seats Grantaire recognised their faces; they had been part of the group of men that had been there the evening he and Enjolras had first arrived, smoking and hassling the serving girl. Both of them studied Grantaire with the sort of fascination to which he imagined all newcomers to the town were subjected.

“I have had a particularly unpleasant day,” Grantaire informed them, gesturing to his glass as though to emphasise his point. “And I have been sober entirely too much of late.”

The stout gentleman laughed at that. “A feeling I know too well, Monsieur!” he said, extending his hand in greeting. “Adrien. This is Jean-Pierre,” he pointed to his companion. “You are new to town, yes?”

“Yes. We arrived here two weeks past.”

“We?”

Grantaire's mouth went dry. “My wife and I,” he said. He did not like using that word for Enjolras even when he was not there to hear it. It was inaccurate, and left a foul taste in his mouth.

The two men evidently noticed him grimace on the word. “Not a good marriage, Monsieur?” Jean-Pierre asked, smirking.

“Not necessarily, no,” Grantaire said. It was not a lie, after all - their union was far from a happy one. He drained his glass in one go. “We were wed only because there is to be a child.”

Adrien scrunched up his face with a despairing sound. “A child! Urgh! Wretched luck!” He said. “Hot-blooded men like ourselves ought not be anchored down by so-called decency. I pity you, Monsieur. Grieve your freedom on me,” he insisted, flagging down the bartender to order another round of drinks.

They passed the next few hours that way, talking as though they were old friends. They were decent enough company, he thought, but he knew in his heart that they were but a poor substitute for Joly and Bossuet. By the end of the night Grantaire's head was starting to spin, his whole body seized by that pleasant warmth he had so missed these last months. It was a familiar state of being, to be on the cusp of not. If only he could drink until he forgot Enjolras entirely, he thought. But that was not possible – even back in Paris, it had never been possible. Grantaire had drunk until his lips felt numb and his legs could barely carry him home, but always Enjolras was there, in his mind, in his dreams. All the absinthe in the world could not banish the man from Grantaire's thoughts.

“Perhaps you ought to find a girl for the night, Monsieur,” Adrien suggested, gesturing across the room to the group of young women talking amongst themselves. “Get your marital troubles off your mind.”

Grantaire hummed thoughtfully. That was certainly an idea – and not a particularly bad one, either. He could not even remember when his last encounter had been, for in his opinion his sad, lonely tryst with Enjolras hardly counted as sex. The thought of taking a room at the inn and seeking out someone to warm his bed was very tempting, he had to confess. Even if he could not dispel Enjolras from his mind completely, he fancied he might be able to set him aside for a few hours with the right company. He looked at the women again, noticing a few of them glancing in his direction curiously. Likely they were fascinated by the mysterious newcomer – and, still wearing his fine wedding coat, he surely looked more wealthy than he was. A winning combination for scoring a one-night lover, he thought.

As though reading his mind Adrien slid from his seat, taking Grantaire by the arm and pulling him in the direction of the women.

“Dear Estelle! How beautiful you look this evening!” He said, kissing the hand of a pretty redhead.

“Adrien, you dog,” she said. There was a teasing glimmer in her eyes that rather softened the nature of her words. “Who is this?”

“Ah, my new friend, whom I have just had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of. Monsieur Grantaire – from Rouen.”

“Rouen?” The woman echoed. “I have always wanted to visit Rouen! What is it like there, Monsieur?”

Grantaire balked. Perhaps he ought to have chosen a place he had actually visited from which to say he hailed. “Well,” he said, “It is a city. That is all there is to it.”

“Why did you leave?” Another young woman asked. She was comely looking and slight - and blonde. Grantaire had to concede he had a type.

“I merely fancied a change of scenery, that is all,” he said, shrugging. “Would you allow me to buy you a drink, Mademoiselle?”

The girl's cheeks turned agreeably pink. “You do not even know my name, Monsieur.”

“You have not thought to bestow it upon me.” Grantaire reasoned. The woman smirked, ducking her head coyly.

“Henrietta.”

“A charming name,” Grantaire said, “And now – that drink?”

“If it would please you.”

-

It did not happen. The drinks, yes - but nothing further. 

The opportunity had flaunted itself quite openly at him, but when he had paid for a room and he and Henrietta were divesting each other of their clothing, Grantaire had quite abruptly lost his nerve. It had been the ring on his finger that had done it. As he'd moved his hand it had caught the candlelight, the dull pinchbeck shining for a moment in the darkened room, and he had felt sick to the pit of his stomach. Perhaps it was the wine, or perhaps it was his feelings for Enjolras, but as he had been fumbling with the laces of Henrietta's stays Grantaire had suddenly changed his mind about the whole thing. Even if his marriage was a farce, how brutish and crass a man would he be to break his vows so soon after making them? What sort of pig spent his wedding night with someone other than his spouse? His mind had swirled with images of Enjolras, alone in their cold little room, probably wondering where he was.

And so he had fled, leaving with a muttered apology, and staggered in the direction of home.

He was expecting to find Enjolras already asleep, but when he opened the door to their room a candle was still burning on the table. Enjolras was sitting on the bed in his nightshirt, lips set in a hard, stern line, like a governess waiting to berate a naughty child. Grantaire looked down, face hot with shame.

“Where were you?” Enjolras demanded. His voice was cold.

“I went to the inn,” Grantaire muttered.

“I ought to have known as much,” Enjolras said, “I can smell you from here. I thought you were gone.”

“Gone?” Grantaire lifted his gaze from the floor, seeing the icy fury in Enjolras' face. It was enough to make him flinch.

“Yes,” Enjolras said. “I thought that you had succumbed to cowardice and fled.”

His words landed like a slap across the face. “You thought I had abandoned you?” Grantaire asked, voice rising with outrage. He did not know why the assumption offended him so. Was Grantaire not the first to disparage himself? To talk ill of himself? But that he might leave Enjolras – Enjolras, the only thing he had ever believed in – to the gutter? No. No, Grantaire was incapable of such a thing. That Enjolras thought otherwise was devastating.

“You are an inconsistent and unreliable man,” Enjolras stated simply. There was no malice in his voice – he stated it like a fact. “Need I remind you of the Barrière du Maine incident?”

Grantaire shook his head. “That was different,” he said. “I would never leave you.”

Enjolras did not respond. He shifted on the bed, crawling beneath the covers and laying with his back to Grantaire. “You smell of perfume,” he added.

“Yes,” Grantaire said, “I was with a girl.”

Enjolras huffed his disapproval. “You may sleep on the floor, tonight,” he said, flinging a pillow at him. “I do not want to share the bed with you.”

-

When Grantaire awoke he was shivering violently. The room was freezing cold, so cold that he could see his breath in front of him like smoke, just as he had in the church the morning before. His head was pounding and his throat was parched. For a moment he wondered which of these things had roused him from his sleep, but then he heard Enjolras shuffling uncomfortably on the mattress and realised it was none of them. He sat up, seeing Enjolras trembling just as furiously beneath the sheets. He was tossing and turning, too cold to settle.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said weakly, voice sounding scratchy from the drink. Enjolras paused.

“Yes?”

“Would you like me to start a fresh fire?”

There was a beat of silence. “No,” he said. “We have to be sparing with firewood.”

“But you are cold,” Grantaire argued. Enjolras hesitated, and then lifted up the sheets of the bed – a clear invitation to join him beneath them. Grantaire was not about to decline. He stood, picking up his pillow, and crawled in beside him.

It was immediately warmer with the two of them side by side.

“I am sorry,” Enjolras said after a while. Grantaire frowned. Enjolras was not one for apologies – mostly because he was so rarely in the wrong.

“For what?” he asked.

“For accusing you of abandoning me. It was a cruel assumption to make. You may have been unreliable in the past, but you have been good to me since June.”

Grantaire blinked up at the ceiling. “I did not tell you where I was going, and did not come back until late – you are entitled to your concerns.” he said, and then; “I was not with a girl, by the way. Well, I was, for a time, but it did not go anywhere. I could not, I – I know our marriage is not real, but I could not abide the thought of breaking my wedding vows so immediately. Perhaps it was my father, putting the fear of God into me as a child. I do not know. But I could not go through with it.”

Enjolras made a small, indecipherable sound. He closed his eyes, rolled over, and then - to Grantaire's overwhelming surprise – wrapped one arm around Grantaire. It was so tender and unexpected that he did not know how to react for a moment. Was Enjolras awake? Did he know he had done that?

“Go back to sleep,” Enjolras urged gently, a signal that he was clearly aware of his actions. Grantaire hesitated, and then pulled Enjolras closer to his chest to hold him. Enjolras let out a little purr of contentment, likely the result of being suddenly much warmer in Grantaire's arms. Grantaire did not think he would be able to go back to sleep with Enjolras so close to him, but his eyelids felt heavy and before he knew it he was slipping into comfortable darkness, Enjolras' hair tickling his nose. Perhaps this marriage would not be so unhappy after all. Not a union of lovers, perhaps, but a partnership, of sorts – maybe, even, a tentative friendship.


	6. Chapter 6

-

Grantaire had never been more unhappy to wake up – well, perhaps once before, but that time had given him the opportunity to spare Enjolras' life, and so he did not resent it entirely. This was different. His temples were throbbing, someone was pounding on their door, and Enjolras was curled up against him so comfortably that Grantaire would have rather parted with a limb than disturb him. Still the knocking continued. Enjolras stirred, grumbling incoherently.

“Who on earth is that?” He asked, voice muffled against Grantaire's chest.

“I do not know,” Grantaire said, “Perhaps they have the wrong address?”

“Monsieur Grantaire?” A gruff voice shouted from the other side of the door. Grantaire groaned.

“Or not,” he said, reluctantly disentangling himself from Enjolras. A quick glance at the shutters indicated it was not yet light outside. That meant they could not have been sleeping for more than a couple of hours. Grantaire had half a mind to sock whoever had woken them up with his fist. He threw the door open angrily, surprised to see an elderly man with thin lips and even thinner hair staring back at him.

“Can I help you, Monsieur?” Grantaire demanded.

“Yes,” the man said, voice curt. “Monsieur Allard told you the stipulations of your lease, I take it?”

“He did,” Grantaire said, rubbing the sleep from one eye with the heel of his hand. “Monsieur Labelle, I presume?”

“Correct,” the man looked Grantaire up and down as though in inspection. “You look strong enough, I suppose. Come – I need your assistance.”

“Monsieur, it is not yet dawn,”

“And?”

“And I was married yesterday!”

“Congratulations,” Labelle said flatly. “What has that to do with your ability to lift bags of grain?”

“I---well,” Grantaire blinked, taken aback. “I merely expected a little more warning before I would be needed. Would you pull a man from his marriage bed so early in the morning the day after his wedding?”

“I am sure your bride will cope without you for a while,” Labelle scoffed. He craned his neck then, trying to look into the room at Enjolras, who had lifted his head from beneath the sheets. Labelle leered slightly as he saw him, enough that Grantaire felt inclined to move and block his view.

“You have fifteen minutes,” Labelle decided. “Wash yourself, dress yourself, and then come downstairs to begin work. Do not dawdle or waste time on amorous pursuits.”

With that he was gone, leaving a stunned Grantaire in his wake.

“Must you really go to work so soon?” Enjolras asked from the bed.

“It is the conditions of our lease,” Grantaire reminded him, starting about building a fire in the hearth so that Enjolras would be warm when he left. Perhaps he would be able to fall back to sleep and steal a few more precious hours. “I can hardly protest. We need a roof over our heads, do we not?”

Enjolras did not argue. “I slept well,” he said, suddenly. Grantaire glanced over his shoulder at him, scowling.

“Last night,” Enjolras elaborated. “For these last few hours, at least.” _He means whilst you were holding him_, Grantaire thought with a strange thrill.

“Oh,” he said, rather inadequately. “So did I.”

Enjolras bestowed him the slightest of smiles at that - one of those rare, holy moments that made Grantaire's heart feel as though it were taking flight.

“Hopefully I will not be long downstairs,” Grantaire said, when the fire was burning nicely. “I will see you later – and bring home food.”

-

It only got worse from there. Monsieur Labelle was pleased to find Grantaire stronger than he looked – the outcome of years of boxing with Bahorel – and soon found a better use for him than merely moving heavy sacks. Within days of the arrangement he had been placed on night-long shifts helping to mix and knead the dough for the morning bread. It was a task that Grantaire had not imagined particularly taxing before now, though he had quickly come to learn otherwise. It was backbreaking work, and often by the time the sun broke over the horizon and Grantaire was given permission to crawl back upstairs into bed he was left feeling as though he had aged ten years.

There was one comfort in all of this, at least; that being that whenever Grantaire returned Enjolras would greet him, half-asleep and soft around the edges. Grantaire would fall asleep almost instantly with Enjolras' arms around him and wake late in the afternoon to food. It went on like this until December, when he came storming home one morning in a state of outrage that he could not suppress even for Enjolras' sake.

“Is something the matter?” Enjolras asked the moment he was in the room. He was sitting at the desk by the window, several pieces of paper strewn out in front of him. Grantaire collapsed onto the bed, kicking off his shoes.

“Yes,” he said, “Monsieur Labelle is a monster, that is what! He and Allard have conspired against us.”

Enjolras' brow creased with concern. “How so?”

“They are changing the nature of our arrangement,” Grantaire told him, raking his nails through his hair. Despite the cold it was sweltering inside the bakery, and the heat from the oven had left him feeling sweaty and uncomfortable. “We have a choice: either our rent is to increase – the reasoning for that being the babe, of course – or I am to take on more work.”

“More work?” Enjolras echoed, scowling. “How can you possibly take on more work? You are slaving away each night for them from dusk until dawn!”

“Well now I am to come home, sleep a few hours, and then begin work in the afternoon, also,” Grantaire stated.

“I—no.” Enjolras said.

“No?”

“No. I cannot allow you to do that.”

Grantaire smiled weakly. If any man on this earth could change things by sheer force of will, it would be Enjolras. But this was not something he had any power over.

“We cannot pay the increased rent,” he reasoned gently. “If I do not work, we do not have a home. It is winter, and you...” his eyes went fleetingly to Enjolras' stomach. It was not something they talked of, his condition. It seemed a taboo subject, a matter that was to be ignored for as long as possible. But it was obvious now, even beneath the fabric of his shirt. A slight swell, the telling promise of new life. Whether this child was wanted or not was inconsequential – for the birth to go well, for Enjolras to remain healthy, they could not risk being cast out into the cold. Enjolras seemed to understand. He picked up his pen, dipping the nib into the inkwell.

“I will write to my parents,” he decided. “And tell them everything.”

“Everything?”

“Well, I shall gloss over some matters,” he conceded. Grantaire did not have to ask what details those were; his gender, for one, and the events of June. “I will tell them that we eloped. That I am with child. That we are starving. I know my parents – they are harsh, but they will take pity. I know what to say to them.”

“You need not do that, Enjolras,” Grantaire said. “I know you wanted to start afresh, without them. I can work the extra hours.”

“No. You have done much for me, since the barricades fell,” Enjolras said. His eyes grew serious, intense. “Allow me to do this for you.”

-

**December 24th, 1832.**

-

Christmas passed most miserably indeed. As they awaited a response from Enjolras' parents Grantaire continued to work, so much so that he had quite lost track of the days. On Christmas Eve, as the sleepy little town became loud and merry with carols and revelry, Grantaire and Enjolras spent it in their room, sharing a few pastries Grantaire had snagged from the bakery when Monsieur Labelle's back was turned. It was without a doubt the saddest festive season Grantaire had ever known. Even his childhood, which had been punctuated by his father's rod and heavy hand, did not compare. The year prior Grantaire had spent this evening drunk and cheerful, staggering through the streets of Paris in a light snowfall between Joly and Bossuet, singing carols that none of them remembered the words to. The three of them had visited Notre-Dame at midnight, caused enough of a ruckus to be ejected by the sexton, and then stumbled their separate ways with jovial kisses and good tidings.

He had woken with a murderous hangover, but a belly full of festive food and a rare sense of contentment. It had not lasted, of course. Grantaire's melancholy seemed determined to steal into even the few pleasant moments he took for himself. But it had been enough.

Now he was spending it in a small room above a bakery with Enjolras, who had lost the spark that had once drawn Grantaire to him.

“Will you dance with me?” He asked, rather abruptly. He did not know why; he had managed to abstain from wine all evening. Enjolras frowned.

“Dance?”

“It is Christmas,” Grantaire reasoned. “I would usually go caroling, or find some bistro that was open all evening where they would be singing and dancing.”

Enjolras hesitated. “I do not dance,” he said.

“I can teach you.”

“That is not the problem,” Enjolras said. “I said that I do not, not that I cannot."

Grantaire offered him his hand. “Please?”

“I only know how to follow.”

“Then I will show you how to lead. You do it so well in all other matters.”

That, at last, managed to wrangle a slight smile from Enjolras' lips. He stood somewhat stiffly, taking Grantaire's hand. The contact sent a shiver running down Grantaire's spine.

“Now – here, place your hand there---yes,” Grantaire positioned them both as he would a model for his paintings, looking down at their feet to avoid eye-contact with Enjolras. He feared he would be burned to ashes under his fierce gaze. “Yes, just so. Now, one, two, three, one, two, three...yes, you see? You are a natural.”

Enjolras hummed doubtfully, watching his steps carefully. “I feel ungainly, in my condition.”

“I think you are rather graceful.”

“We have no music,” he said.

Grantaire smirked. “I could sing 'La Carmagnole'?”

“That would be a difference dance altogether.”

“No music, then. This is pleasant enough as it is,” Grantaire decided. As they danced slowly he heard the church bells chime midnight in the town, and stopped.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. Enjolras looked up at him.

“Merry Christmas,” he said back. The smile faded from his features. “I miss them.”

“Yes,” Grantaire agreed. “So do I.”


	7. Chapter 7

**January, 1833.**

**-**

“Are you quite certain of this?”

It was the fifth time Enjolras had asked him that question that morning. Grantaire raked his nails through his hair, kicking at a stone beneath his shoe. “I know I have never given you much cause to trust my judgement,” he said, “but believe me, please. This place is well suited to our needs.”

Enjolras looked back down the long driveway at the house. He did not look convinced, and in truth Grantaire could not blame him for it. The house was large, secluded, just as Enjolras had wished - but dilapidated. So dilapidated that Enjolras was quite easily forgiven for having his misgivings. It was dreary, and there was a visible corner of roofing missing, revealing the rafters like the bones of a dead animal. Everything around it was overgrown, plants reaching up the walls and clawing their way inside through the broken windows.

“I can repair it,” Grantaire said. “I know that may be surprising, but it is true. There is very little structural damage. It needs only some new window panes and roof tiles.”

“I do not doubt your abilities,” Enjolras said, turning to look at him. “But it is _winter_...”

“Most of the house is quite sound. If we keep fires burning in the hearths you will not get cold,” Grantaire assured him. “Nobody will ever find us out here, Enjolras. And it is affordable...”

Affordable, yes, thanks only to Enjolras' parents. For the last month Grantaire had watched Enjolras fight a regular battle with them via letters, begging and pleading until they had at last acquiesced and sent them money. A monthly allowance, enough to support them, and a portion of Enjolras' dowry. It was less than half of what they had intended to give a husband of their choosing, but still more money than Grantaire had ever seen in his life – and enough to buy a house of their own, a sanctuary away from the prying eyes that followed him everywhere in the town. A place big enough to raise children, Grantaire thought sadly. He cast the notion aside, knowing that it was not worth thinking tenderly on the babe. Enjolras did not want it, and when it was born it would be gone again within the same day. To linger on fond sentiments about children was a foolish thing indeed.

“Very well,” Enjolras said after a while. “I suppose it is private. And there is a gate. You must fix that first.”

Grantaire nodded. “I will make sure we are safe here,” he vowed. “Let us go back into town, so that I might sign the papers...”

“Oh, yes. Of course. You must do that, mustn't you?” Enjolras furrowed his brow. “I forget that I cannot – that you are in command of such matters, now...”

“It is unfair,” Grantaire said. “But I swear I shall always request your permission, before making any decisions...”

“I do not care,” Enjolras said, suddenly cold once more. “Come. Let us get it over with, so that you may tell Allard and Labelle they can find new tenants. I am looking forward to that, at least.”

-

Allard and Labelle were, to Grantaire's utter satisfaction, most unimpressed by the news. He was not the only one pleased by this; Enjolras took great delight in their unhappiness and the inconvenience they had caused. It was perhaps the first time Grantaire had seen him truly smile since June – that cool, confident smile that had once moved crowds, not the nervous hesitation he occasionally bestowed upon Grantaire.

Moving to the house was an easy enough transition; they had so few belongings that there was very little to take with them. The house came with much of the needed furniture, all covered with white sheets and a few decades out of fashion.

“You see?” Grantaire said, as he pulled open the shutters of the drawing room and allowed the harsh January sunlight to come flooding inside. “It is not so run down on the inside!”

“It will certainly suffice,” Enjolras said, the closest thing to an agreement Grantaire imagined he was going to get. He was looking around the room with thinly disguised curiosity, wrinkling his nose against the dust.

“With a little paintwork it might be quite nice,” Grantaire put in. “I am thinking I might paint murals on the walls. What do you think?”

“Whatever you wish. I have no real care for art.”

“Yes. Quite right. I forgot.”

“I am going to upstairs to change into my own clothes,” Enjolras announced, apparently done with his inspection of the house. “This dress does not fit me - it is uncomfortable.”

Grantaire nodded. “You may choose whichever bedroom pleases you,” he said. Enjolras paused on his way out of the room, glancing back at him in confusion.

“There are multiple rooms with beds,” Grantaire elaborated. “I imagine you will be pleased to have your own space again, yes?”

“Oh. Yes,” Enjolras said, pulling off his winter bonnet. “I will be turning in for the evening, in that case. I can build my own fire,” he added, before Grantaire could offer to help him. “You forget that I lived alone, in Paris.”

“Of course. Forgive me. I will leave you to it, then.”

Enjolras gave a curt nod. “Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight...”

-

Three days later Grantaire received a visitor in the night. Visitor was, perhaps, not right, for the word 'visitor' implied a certain level of invitation, the way one calls upon a friend with prior agreement or sends along a card stating one's intentions to do so. This was not so much a visitor as it was an intruder, though one that Grantaire would have been lying to say was not most welcome indeed. In the dead of night, when the fire had died in the hearth and the room had turned cold, he was roused from his sleep by the movement of his bedsheets.

For a moment he forgot where he was entirely, so baffled as to who it was creeping into his bed – only a sliver of moonlight breaking into the room from the shutters conveyed to him that he was not dreaming.

“Enjolras?” he said, recognising the long, pale curls as they caught the light. No – it could not be. Enjolras had a room of his own now. But then who else? Some phantom?

“Forgive me for waking you,” a voice replied, confirming the most absurd of suspicions. It was him, then. Grantaire was not imagining it. “I could not sleep,” he said.

Grantaire blinked, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He saw him properly then, sitting on the edge of the mattress with the sheets pulled back as though he meant to join him. He was wearing nothing but his long nightshirt and stockings, hair falling loose around his shoulders like a lion's mane. It did not make sense. Grantaire could not understand why he was here. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

Enjolras was quiet for a moment. He did not look at him, turning his face away as though in shame. “I had a nightmare,” he said.

“Oh,” Grantaire said, his response lacking once again. He saw Enjolras curl in on himself, hugging his own arms.

“I will go back to my room,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “I apologise, this was foolish---”

“No,” Grantaire said instantly. He reached out almost on instinct, catching Enjolras' elbow; Enjolras startled but did not pull away. “Please,” he added, softer. “Do not feel foolish.”

Enjolras hesitated for a moment, eyes fixed on where they were touching. Slowly he sat back down.

“I do not think I want to sleep alone,” he confessed.

“Then you do not need to,” Grantaire told him. Without even waiting for a reply he released his arm and shifted along on the mattress to make space for him. Enjolras watched from his spot, unmoving.

“I do not wish to intrude...”

“You are not,” Grantaire said. “I am inviting you.”

As though that was the signal he had been waiting for Enjolras at last relented. He climbed into bed, laying his head down on one of the pillows, and let out a comfortable hum as Grantaire pulled the covers around them both. It was much more pleasant with Enjolras beside him, Grantaire observed. Though his flame had somewhat ebbed of late he still seemed to radiate with all the warmth of the sun. Once Grantaire might have made a joke about the fires of liberty burning in his chest, but now, after all that had passed, that seemed a sad thought to him.

“What happened in it?” he asked.

“Hm?”

“Your nightmare.”

“Oh,” Enjolras paused. “I was there again, that is all. Only you did not appear to...well, it was unpleasant.”

Unpleasant was surely an understatement, Grantaire thought, troubled that Enjolras spoke of these things with such dispassion. He talked with the cool detachment of a soldier, once again Grantaire's opposite. For Grantaire even thinking of that June made him wish to drown himself in a barrel of wine. Enjolras seemed to have almost removed himself from it – it, however, had clearly not removed itself from him.

“I imagine it was,” Grantaire said. “You may sleep here as long as you need.”

“Thank you---” Enjolras broke off with a strange sound – strange enough that Grantaire propped himself up on his elbows in alarm.

“Enjolras---”

“Do not worry,” he said swiftly. “It is nothing. Merely the babe.”

“The babe?”

“It is moving.”

Grantaire felt his mouth open, but no words came out. So often he forgot that the child was real and alive. He had tried to push it to the back of his mind, into some dark recess where he could ignore the matter. It would make it easier when it came to parting ways.

“I did not realise,” he said, “Forgive me. Is it painful?”

“No,” Enjolras said. “But uncomfortable, at times.”

“Yes, I...I suppose it would be...”

Enjolras was silent for a while. Grantaire heard him move on the mattress, evidently trying to get comfortable. And then: “You may feel for yourself, if you really wish.”

“What?”

“Here,”

Without further comment he reached out and took Grantaire's hand, guiding it to his stomach and holding it there. Grantaire was too shocked to do anything but comply. A beat passed, followed by another – and then he felt it. The slightest, strangest of movements beneath his palm, the flutter of a trapped butterfly, the tremor of a leaf in the breeze. Grantaire expelled a sharp breath.

“My god,” he said, feeling himself smile quite in spite of himself. “That is astonishing!”

“It is rather remarkable,” Enjolras agreed mildly.

“Truly, that is – well, it is---”

“I know.”

Enjolras let go of his hand. “We should sleep,” he said, rolling over onto his side so that Grantaire could no longer feel the babe. Grantaire's stomach sank with disappointment as the sensation was lost to him. He drew his hand back, trying to imprint the moment upon his mind, to burn it into his memory forever. It might be the only time he would ever touch his child, he realised.

“Yes,” he said, certain that his voice left him with a slight crack. “You are right, of course. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”


	8. Chapter 8

**April, 1833.**

**-**

Enjolras remained in Grantaire's bed. He remained all through February and into March, and showed no signs of moving even when the weather at last began to grow faintly warmer. Grantaire was not inclined to complain.

By the start of April the house was beginning to come along nicely. The windows were fixed, as was as much of the roof as Grantaire could manage by himself. There was one room and part of the attic that he doubted would ever be functional, but the place was now warm and sound enough to constitute a home. They swept away the cobwebs and removed all the sheets from the furniture, polishing up the wood and adding a few licks of paint to the walls. Enjolras was too practically minded to have any real interest in making it look nice, but he humoured Grantaire at least a little, helping him to arrange furniture and put up new drapes.

His condition was now entirely impossible to ignore, impeding upon almost everything he did. Grantaire would watch him pause halfway up the stairs to gather his breath, would listen to him toss and turn in his sleep. It was painful to see him in such discomfort, knowing that he could do nothing to help him. Grantaire tried as best he could. One afternoon he discovered an old tin tub on castors in one of the unused rooms, and rolled it into the master bedroom in front of the fireplace. As Enjolras napped in the parlour Grantaire went to and from the kitchen again and again with pails of water, until a steaming hot bath was awaiting Enjolras when he ventured upstairs to bed that evening.

“I thought it might help ease some of your aches and pains,” Grantaire explained, as Enjolras stood in the doorway, staring at it in bewilderment.

“How did you do this?” he asked.

“I brought up water from the kitchen,” Grantaire said. He thought it ought to have been quite obvious.

“Yes but – that is a lot of trips,” Enjolras frowned. “It must have been hard work.”

“Well it was not easy,” Grantaire conceded, “but if it helps...”

“I am sure it will.”

A strange look passed between them. Grantaire could not place it, but when Enjolras' gaze drifted to the bath again he understood.

“Ah – sorry, yes. I will leave you to your privacy, of course,” he said, clearing his throat. “Shout me when you are done, or...if you need anything, I suppose...”

“Yes, I will,” Enjolras' expression remained utterly unfathomable. His brows had come together as though in confusion, but the corners of his lips twitched with the start of a smile that he seemed uncertain of. “Thank you, Grantaire. This was...very considerate of you.”

Grantaire ducked his head. “You are very welcome,” he said. “It is the least I can do, I suppose, seeing as it is my doing.”

“Your doing?”

Grantaire gestured wordlessly to his stomach.

“Oh,” Enjolras said, looking a little flustered. “Yes – of course.”

“Enjoy,” Grantaire muttered, heading for the door.

-

As the days crept on it became more and more apparent that Enjolras' time would soon be upon him. It could have been any day now, for all Grantaire knew. He was totally ignorant of the signs. When his mother had given birth to his youngest sibling she had gone into confinement in the last month, and Grantaire had seen and heard none of it, waking one morning to discover he had a sister. It had seemed like magic. But he was no longer a child, and now he knew better - but not enough. Not enough to be of any kind of help to Enjolras when the moment came. Knowledge of childbirth rested in the hands of doctors, midwives, and those who had borne children before. Grantaire was none of these, and he doubted Enjolras' mother had equipped him with much understanding of how the thing was done.

As the inevitable drew ever nearer Grantaire found himself growing more and more anxious. It was a dangerous endeavour, and he reckoned more lives were lost in childbed than on battlefields. If Enjolras died then Grantaire vowed to follow him. Arsenic from the apothecary would do the job. It would be divine justice, seeing as he was father to this misfortune---

“Monsieur, do you plan to purchase that sack of potatoes, or merely cradle it like a babe?”

The voice of the grocer cut into his morbid thinking, causing him to startle so suddenly that he nearly dropped what he was holding. He had been waiting in line for what felt like a lifetime as the man in front of him argued about the poor state of the butter he had purchased. He had not even realised it was his turn to be served.

“Oh – yes, forgive me,” Grantaire said, setting the sack down on the counter. _Cradling it like a babe_, he thought miserably. It was the closest he would surely come.

He paid the grocer and took his leave, ignoring the other customers that whispered amongst themselves as he passed by. He had barely taken three steps out the door when a hand suddenly landed on his shoulder. He whirled around defensively, expecting a confrontation, and instead found a young woman no more than twenty years of age staring at him. She had auburn curls and friendly green eyes, so disarming that he did not know how to react. His gaze dropped to her outstretched hand – and the familiar coin purse she was holding.

“I believe you left this inside, Monsieur,” she said.

Grantaire blinked once, taking it from her. “I---yes. I must have. Thank you, Mademoiselle. For your keen eyes – and your honesty.”

The woman smiled. “You are quite welcome, Monsieur...?”

“Grantaire.”

“Marceline. Pleased to meet you...” she said. “You are new to the town, aren't you?”

“Is that so obvious?”

“A little. Less so from your demeanour than from all the gossip I've been hearing. Someone said you came from Rouen. Someone said from Lyon. Someone said from Paris. You are a well-travelled man, according to rumour!”

Grantaire managed a small laugh at that. “Is that so?” he said. “Well, evidently their version of me has had much more adventure than I have. I am almost envious of him.”

Marceline smirked, amused. “So which is it?”

“Pardon?”

“Where did you come from?”

“Ah. Rouen.”

“Figures – that was the first I heard,” Marceline said. She glanced at the sack in his arms. “You seemed rather distracted, inside. Is something troubling you?”

“Just domestic concerns,” Grantaire told her. There was something open and warm about Marceline that almost warranted honesty, a bright spark that reminded him a little of Courfeyrac. “I am to be a father soon,” he said. “I am nervous about the birth.”

Marceline recoiled in surprise. “Oh! That is wonderful news, Monsieur!”

“I suppose it is...”

“Why have I not heard about this yet?”

Grantaire scowled. “Why on earth would you have?”

“I am a midwife, Monsieur,” Marceline said. “The women in my family have attended every birth in this town for the last fifty years!”

_A midwife. _Grantaire almost dropped his potatoes, scrambling to keep purchase on them. _A midwife! _It was as though this girl had been sent from heaven. She was the solution to their problem - if only Enjolras could be persuaded to agree.

“Would you attend this one, too?” he asked.

“Of course. My mother and I---”

“No. Only you,” Grantaire cut her off. “There cannot be too many present. It is...complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“Yes. Believe me, very much so. How discreet are you, Mademoiselle? I pray, answer truthfully.”

Marceline tilted her head. “Discreet?” she echoed. “Why? Is there something scandalous about this matter?”

“Scandalous, maybe,” Grantaire said. “Curious, definitely.”

“Well you have certainly piqued my interest,” Marceline said, eyeing him up and down suspiciously. “I can be as discreet as required, Monsieur.”

“Good. Excellent. Wonderful,” Grantaire said, almost gushing with relief. “Will you accompany me to my home, then? It is some way, we have just purchased the estate on the edge of town---”

“Oh, old Bidard's place?”

“Was that the former owner?”

“Yes. A miserly old banker. My brothers used to tell me the place was haunted.”

Grantaire smiled. “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “But then I am a very deep sleeper. Perhaps I have merely missed the ghosts?” _Though I have been sleeping beside one for months..._

Marceline laughed. “Very possible, I suppose. Alright, then. But I cannot be there for too long, I will be expected home soon.”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, offering her his arm. “Truly, Mademoiselle – you do not know how grateful I am to have dropped my purse!”

-

He left Marceline in the drawing room. It was best, he thought, to broach the subject with Enjolras before he introduced her. He found him where he had left him - in the parlour, seated comfortably in one of the armchairs by the fire. He had no book, no writing. Grantaire did not know if he had been sleeping, or simply sitting there, staring into the fire. Since the barricades his silences had been mournful, but of late they seemed to have grown pensive, as though he was consumed by his thoughts. Grantaire wondered if he too was worrying about the impending birth.

“Enjolras,” he called. He turned his head to look at him.

“You are back, then,” he said.

Grantaire nodded. “Yes. Enjolras, I have...I have brought someone to the house.”

Enjolras' eyes flashed - first with alarm, then with outrage. He stood, furious, and Grantaire suddenly felt as though he were back on the barricades. “_What?_”

“Forgive me,” Grantaire said, “but---”

“Who? _Why?_”

“Her name is Marceline---”

“A girl! Of course! You could not take your philandering elsewhere?"

“No! You misunderstand!” Grantaire said, crossing the room towards him; Enjolras took a step back, bristling. Any further and he would be in the fire, Grantaire thought.

“What is there to misunderstand?” he asked.

“She is a midwife!” Grantaire said.

Enjolras froze. He glared still, but seemed to have been caught off guard by the statement. “A midwife?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said. “I know I ought not have brought her here without your permission, but I knew you would say no outright. She is discreet, Enjolras – she swears by it, and I believe her. I left my coin purse in the grocers, and she handed it back to me. She is honest.”

Enjolras looked away, suddenly evasive. “It is a bad idea,” he said. “Send her away.”

“Please, Enjolras,” Grantaire begged. “I know nothing of childbirth and I doubt you do either. It is dangerous---”

“I know that.”

“Then please. Let us have a midwife present. If anything were to happen to you...” Grantaire trailed off. Enjolras glanced at him, something softening in his features.

“If she breathes a word..."

“I do not think she will,” Grantaire said. “We will pay her well, for added incentive. And if I am wrong and she says anything we will simply up and move again. We can afford to do that now.”

Enjolras sighed. He turned away, hugging his arms. There was a long beat of silence, broken only by the logs in the hearth spitting and crackling as they were devoured by flames.

“Very well,” he said at last. “But I will meet her first, before I reveal anything of my situation. Pass me that throw – I will cover my condition.”

Grantaire did as he said, watching as Enjolras reluctantly sat back down, hiding his stomach beneath the thick brocade blanket. He took a deep breath, and then lifted his chin.

“Send her in, then.”

-

“I must admit, Monsieur, this is all rather unusual,” Marceline remarked, looking around as she followed Grantaire up the hall. No doubt she found the place imposing.

“Yes, well...unusual is indeed the word for it,” Grantaire said. He hesitated at the door, turning to her. “You must swear to me once more, Mademoiselle, that you can be discreet. Our lives here depend upon it.”

Marceline nodded. “I swear,” she said.

“Good,” Grantaire said, opening the door and gesturing for her to go ahead of him.

She stopped a few feet into the room, surprised to see not the wife she had evidently been expecting, but a cold, calm man with a hard expression sitting by the fire.

“I---do not understand,” she said. “You are...?”

“Monsieur Enjolras,” he said. “Marceline, yes?”

“Yes, Monsieur.” Marceline scowled. She glanced at Grantaire for an explanation. “I am sorry, Monsieur – I am confused. Where is your wife?”

“I do not have a wife,” Grantaire told her.

Marceline's eyes widened, Grantaire realising too late how his words might have sounded. The young midwife turned to Enjolras, curling her hands into fists. A large old house on the outskirts of town and two strange men - no doubt the poor woman thought herself lured there for wicked reasons.

“If you lay a hand on me I will cut it off,” she said fiercely. Enjolras recoiled.

“It is not like that!” Grantaire said quickly. “Forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you! I swear to you, you are safe here!"

“Then why?” Marceline demanded, looking between the two of them. “If you've no wife then it follows that there is no babe. Why else would you bring me here?”

“That is not entirely true,” Enjolras said calmly from his seat.

“What do you mean?”

“You must be open-minded, for us to employ your services. Can you promise that, along with discretion?”

Marceline made a sound of bitter amusement. “You have no idea, Monsieur...”

Enjolras seemed satisfied with that answer, at least. He pulled back the throw, revealing the nature of his predicament. Marceline's mouth closed instantly.

For a long moment absolutely nothing was said. And then she found her voice again.

“You are a---”

“No,” Enjolras said. “I am not a woman. I am a man. My head and heart know it, though my anatomy may not be as conventional as most.”

Marceline looked thoughtful. The tension in the room was almost suffocating, Grantaire thought.

“Very well,” she said finally; Grantaire saw Enjolras blanch with surprise.

“Very well?”

“It makes no difference to me, Monsieur,” Marceline said. She appeared utterly unfazed. “My work is to delivery healthy babes. I do not care if I am helping a woman or a man.”

Something like respect passed behind Enjolras' eyes. “It does not bother you?”

“No,” Marceline shrugged. “Why should it? It is not my business who somebody is or who they love...” her eyes went to Grantaire, who had finally released a breath he had not even known he was holding. “I am here to do my job and do it well.”

“Good,” Enjolras decided. “Then we will happily employ you – and we shall pay you well for it. We have rooms, if you should like to stay here. We can provide room and board, as well as a wage.”

“I will have to tell my mother,” Marceline said. “Not of you, of course. But she will need to know I am to live here.”

“I will accompany you back into town,” Grantaire offered. “To help you with your things.”

Marceline nodded. She glanced at Enjolras again. “I would ask that you change into a nightshirt, Monsieur. When I return I shall have to examine you, to have some idea of when the babe will be here.”

Enjolras did not seem pleased by the notion, but he gave a short nod of agreement.

“Come, then,” Grantaire said, leading her out of the parlour again.

“Grantaire, may I speak with you a moment, before you leave?” Enjolras asked.

“Of course. Go ahead, Marceline – I shall catch up.”

He waited until she was gone before he turned to face Enjolras, half expecting to be scolded for his actions. Enjolras' expression was still stern as anything.

“Yes?” he ventured.

Enjolras pursed his lips. And then: “Thank you,” he said. “For bringing her here.”

“You are welcome. I merely thought it might be useful...”

“You were correct,” Enjolras said. Grantaire smiled. “But if you do anything like this again you will be sleeping in the garden.”

Grantaire could not help but laugh.


	9. Chapter 9

**May, 1833.**

**-**

Enjolras' pains began on a sunny May morning, the dew still clinging to the grass and birds singing in the trees. Grantaire had envisioned a hurried ordeal – Marceline running back and forth with linens and hot water – but in truth it transpired to be rather slow. It had started just before noon, and by five o'clock in the evening, when they would usually be taking dinner, it was still no closer to being over. Grantaire did not eat. He did not think his stomach would allow for it. Instead he watched helplessly in the doorway as Enjolras paced around the bedroom like a wild animal, breathing deeply through his nose. Grantaire was reminded faintly of how he had been on the barricade – severe, collected, his brows creased in concentration.

“Why is this taking so long?” Enjolras demanded, turning to Marceline. “It has been hours.”

“Babes arrive when they feel like it, I am afraid,” Marceline said.

Enjolras gave a disapproving huff. “I wish it would hurry some,” he said. “I am not used to working to someone else's schedule.”

“Someone else's schedule?” Grantaire said, struck by the absurdity of his statement even under the serious circumstances. The look Enjolras flashed him might have killed other men, he thought. He closed his mouth.

“This is highly inconvenient,” Enjolras continued. He stopped, seized one of the posts of the bed, and hissed through another contraction. “And uncomfortable.”

“Well you are doing wonderfully,” Marceline told him. “Just remember to breathe---”

“I know how to breathe. I have done so successfully for twenty-six years.”

“Please be patient with her, Enjolras,” Grantaire put in weakly. “She is here to help.”

Enjolras did not respond. He released the bed and began his ritual again, pacing the length of the room. Grantaire squirmed uncomfortably.

“How is it progressing?” he asked Marceline.

“Well enough,” Marceline said. “The pains are starting to come closer together. It will be a while yet, but so far I am pleased with how he is doing. You may leave now, Monsieur – I will take over from here.”

Grantaire nodded. He was halfway out of the room when Enjolras' voice stopped him.

“No,” he said. Grantaire froze.

“No?”

“Stay,” Enjolras said, delivered like an order. “Please,” he added. “I would like you to stay with me.”

Grantaire could deny him nothing.

-

Hours later he wished that he had.

The labour was long and hard. It went on into the night, and as the sun began to rise on a new day Grantaire was starting to fear that Enjolras would die after all, that he would be forced to witness it. Every one of Enjolras' screams pierced his chest like a bayonet. It was the worst sound Grantaire had ever heard. At least he had slept through his friends dying. Hearing this, as Enjolras intermittently cursed him to the high heavens for ever touching him, Grantaire was not sure he would ever sleep again.

Perhaps that was to be his punishment. He had survived the barricades purely by his own vice. He had drunk and slept and done nothing to help, and to punish him some higher being had spared him long enough that he would watch Enjolras die not in fire and glory, but blood and pain, _his_ doing. If this was to be it then Grantaire finally understood God, and why his own father had revered him so: both were vengeful beings.

And then suddenly, as he thought this, as he was preparing to sink to his knees in penitent prayer, the shrill cry of a babe taking its first breath interrupted him. Grantaire saw the child only briefly as Marceline scooped it up into a bundle of clean sheets, but as he did he caught a flash of dark hair, so like his own.

“There we are,” Marceline announced, as the baby continued to wail and shriek. “A little boy, healthy and strong!”

“Thank god it is over,” Enjolras exclaimed, sinking down onto his pillow. Instinct might have compelled Grantaire to turn his attention to him immediately. It had always been that way, with the two of them. Grantaire was a compass, and Enjolras true North, forever pulling Grantaire inexorably towards him. A beacon. A lighthouse in a storm. Always he would look to Enjolras before anyone else in the room. And yet, in that instant, Grantaire found that for once in his life this was not so. His gaze was instead fixed resolutely on the small, swaddled lump in Marceline's arms, wriggling with all the fight in him.

“Would you like to hold him?” she asked.

“No,” Enjolras did not hesitate with his answer.

Grantaire glanced at him then, seeing that he had turned his face away. There was an odd look about him, he thought. It was not disgust or disdain as Grantaire might have expected. It looked almost, rather, like regret. Marceline frowned.

“Are you sure?”

“Very,” Enjolras said, wincing at the sound of the infant's cries as though it caused him physical pain.

Marceline gave a small sigh. She turned to Grantaire, the same question in her eyes. Grantaire wanted to – oh, how he wanted to. It would be so easy, he knew, to simply extend his arms and take the child. But he couldn't – he could not allow himself such sentimental indulgence. If he did he knew that he would never be able to say goodbye, that the boy would have his whole heart in an instant. He shook his head silently.

“Very well, then,” Marceline said. “He will need bedding to go in the basket, and a meal of bread and water pap before he is to be taken to the foundling home-” she broke off as the child's cries grew louder, grimacing. “Will you help me, please?”

Grantaire moved to stand, but Enjolras speaking suddenly from the bed stopped him in his tracks. 

“Fine,” he said. “I will hold him just long enough for you to get everything organised."

Marceline nodded. “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said. She walked around the bed, carefully setting the babe in Enjolras' waiting arms. He glanced once at the child, and then away. And then back again, his marble features softening minutely. The baby fell silent.

“Why has he stopped crying?” Enjolras asked.

“He knows you,” Marceline explained, bringing over the basket that was to take their son away. “Your smell, your voice."

“He does?” Enjolras frowned.

“Of course. You have been his whole world for months, after all.”

Enjolras said nothing to that, looking back down at the babe. Grantaire craned his neck, unable to resist. Just because he could not hold him did not mean he could not see him.

The child was beautiful. He had a full head of hair, dark as a crow's feathers and already starting to curl around his face. Grantaire saw his own features in the boy, unmistakable, and yet still – he was beautiful. It was as though Enjolras' nature shone through him, a beam of radiant sunlight through a cover of grey clouds. Beautiful, theirs and not theirs. His heart both soared and sank, like Icarus plummeting to his death from the skies.

“He is quite lovely, isn't he?” Enjolras said eventually, voice so quiet it was as though he hoped no one would hear him.

“Yes,” Grantaire managed. "Rather wonderful.”

Enjolras reached forwards then, tentatively, the way one steps carefully onto a frozen lake to test the ice, and touched the tip of his finger to the baby's open palm. Grantaire watched as the boy's small hand closed around it, gripping so tightly and certainly that there could have never been any doubting him as Enjolras'. _He has his fight_, Grantaire thought. Perhaps the fire he had thought extinguished had instead merely been transferred, the way that even a dying candle may still light the wick of another. Grantaire did not know what that might mean for the child's future. He did not care to.

Beside him Enjolras uttered a strange noise – a sharp intake of breath. Grantaire had to tear his eyes away from the babe and look at him to understand: he was weeping. Enjolras. Unmovable, unshakeable Enjolras – _weeping_.

“Enjolras...”

“I do not want to give him up,” Enjolras confessed. He did not seem to be talking to anyone in particular. “I admit that of late I have been harbouring some doubts about it all. I do not dislike children, you know? They were never in my plans, but I do not hate the notion entirely. But my parents – my parents wanted me married off to a man of their choosing. To spend my life in skirts enduring babe after babe. I did not want that. I fought it. Tooth and nail, I fought it. To keep him, it – it would feel like surrendering to something I am not...”

Grantaire's heart ached. “It is not like that, though,” he said. “Your parents did not choose this for you. They do not even like me.”

Enjolras hesitated. “I do not want to be a _mother_..."

“You will not be. You cannot be,” Grantaire said. “He will know you as his father.”

Enjolras drew a deep breath, gazing back down at the child in his arms. The babe was asleep, content, as though certain of his place in the world – that place being right there, nestled against Enjolras' chest.

“I have never wanted much,” Enjolras said. “I do not care for fame or glory or worldly goods. I have only ever wanted progress. Justice. Liberty for all. But I find that I want this - I want to keep him for myself.”

“A decision does not need to benefit progress or mankind to be a good decision, Enjolras,” Grantaire murmured. “And not everything you do must be for the sake of some revolutionary greater good..."

A long silence followed his words. Grantaire knew that in part they had come from a selfish place. He wanted the child desperately, more desperately than he would have perhaps ever thought possible. He did not imagine he would be a particularly good father. He had not had much of an example, growing up. But he wanted him all the same - and he was not above selfishness as Enjolras was. Enjolras wanted only what was best for the whole world; Grantaire could almost see the conflict raging behind his bright blue eyes as he considered it, the look of a man wrestling with an impossible choice. 

And then, after a moment, he leaned forwards and presed an uncertain kiss to the baby's forehead. Grantaire thought it a parting gesture, but when Enjolras raised his head, he nodded.

“I want him,” he said again - a declaration of his intentions. 

Grantaire would have liked very much to have been calm and dignified in his happiness. It seemed appropriate, given the weight of the decision Enjolras had just made. But Grantaire was not necessarily a calm and dignified man, and his joy quite outranked him on the matter. He felt his face split into a wide grin, helpless to prevent himself. Enjolras raised his eyebrows, surprised – and then broke into a tearful smile himself. He let out a breathless laugh, the sound like music to Grantaire's ears, and for a moment he looked nothing at all like the man Grantaire had first met. There was no stoic man of marble here, no Apollo, no Helios. Just a mortal, holding his child. He was exhausted, hair sticking to his forehead almost comically, and he was beaming – beaming in a way that Grantaire had never imagined Enjolras could. He wondered how few people could claim the privilege of having seen such a smile.

From the corner of his eye, Grantaire saw that Marceline was smiling, too. He watched her remove the basket from the bed and wondered if she knew getting Enjolras to hold the child would have this result – if Enjolras had said something of his doubts and uncertainties to her during the course of his care that had inclined her to try. 

“What are you going to name him?” Grantaire asked, looking to Enjolras again.

“I do not know. I did not give that much thought,” Enjolras said.

“Have you no names at all that you like?”

Enjolras appeared almost bashful. “Camille,” he said.

“Camille?” Grantaire repeated, smirking. “Like Desmoulins?”

Enjolras shot him a withering look.

“I like it,” Grantaire added swiftly. “It is nice. It suits him, don't you think?”

Enjolras nodded. “It does.”

“Camille it is, then.”

Enjolras hummed, touching the babe's dark curls fondly. “He looks like you,” he said, and Grantaire was surprised by the softness with which he spoke the words.

“I think he is better looking,” Grantaire said, only half joking. Enjolras smiled, and then seemed to remember something suddenly.

“Oh – of course,” he said, offering the sleeping babe to Grantaire. “Forgive me – he is yours, too.”

For a moment Grantaire was too shocked to accept. He did not feel worthy of such an honour – as if Camille might dissolve into a pillar of salt the instant he was placed in his arms.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, baffled. “He is your son. Do you not want to?”

“Of course I do,” Grantaire whispered, staring longingly at Camille. “But I have failed at most everything I have done in my life. Whatever I touch I ruin.”

“You will not ruin him,” Enjolras stated firmly.

His certainty was as moving now as it had been before that June. Almost as if obeying a command Grantaire held out his arms and let Enjolras transfer Camille into them. He did not even stir.

“There, just so,” Enjolras said, leaning back to observe.

Grantaire stared down at the baby, awestruck, feeling something new and overwhelming bursting in his chest. It was quite indescribable, a fullness and wholeness that seemed to consume everything within him. The feeling echoed faintly of when he had first met Enjolras – but it was stronger, somehow a warmer love than the cold, distant admiration he had once felt. Somehow all of the misery and melancholy of his wretched life seemed quite worth it.

“My god,” he said. “He is perfect, I...” the words caught in his throat. “I did not think I was capable of doing anything good with my life, but he...”

“He was a blessing in disguise,” Enjolras agreed quietly. “Life is a welcome change after so much death.”

Grantaire smiled.

“Well, I think we are done here,” Marceline announced, rinsing her hands at the washstand. “The delivery went very well. I don't foresee any problems with either of you.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said. “Truly. You have been most helpful.”

“I will remain here a few more weeks,” Marceline told him. “To ensure you and the babe are in good health – and to make sure you know what you are doing with him.”

Enjolras nodded. Camille chose this moment to start moving in Grantaire's arms, his little face scrunching up in righteous fury as he began to cry.

“Shhh,” Grantaire said, rocking him awkwardly. “Hush, it's alright...”

“Do not take offence,” Marceline said. “He is likely hungry.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said. “I – well – what ought I---?”

“You do not need to nurse him if you do not think you can,” Marceline assured him. “There are alternatives.”

“No, I...I would like to try, at least. He is mine, after all. If I am capable of it I may as well do it...” practical as ever, Grantaire thought with amusement. “Though I do not know how, exactly...”

“Do not worry,” Marceline said. “Unbutton the front of your nightgown – I will show you how.”

That, Grantaire decided, was his cue to leave.

“I will fetch some food for us, too,” he said, passing Camille back into Enjolras' arms and getting to his feet.

“Please do,” Enjolras said, laying his head back tiredly on the pillow. “After all of that I find myself absolutely famished.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this one I'm starting to address Grantaire's weird idolization of Eniolras a bit, because obviously that needs to fall away for them to work ;)
> 
> (Also warning for mentions of past abuse!)

**June, 1833.**

**-**

Camille was, undoubtedly, the best thing that had ever happened to Grantaire.

He was also, even more undoubtedly, the most exhausting.

The babe seemed to have been born with a vendetta against sleep, and several times a night he would wake with an outraged shriek, wrenching Enjolras and Grantaire from their slumber. By the end of the first week Grantaire had completely forgotten how it felt to be well-rested, and by the end of the first month he had lost so much sleep that he oft went about his days in a stupor. That in itself was not new to Grantaire - that there was no absinthe involved, however, certainly was. Despite the lack of rest it was not all bad – certainly not. When he was not wailing and screaming Camille was a cherub, a sweet-tempered babe who cooed and gurgled softly in his parents' arms. Grantaire would not have traded it for all the sleep in the world. He had never known such joy, so indescribable, so all-consuming. 

An added delight that had come with Camille's arrival was that Enjolras continued to share his bed. Though the warm Spring weather had rendered the need for a companion quite superfluous they had unanimously decided that waking to attend the babe was easier with them sharing space. They quickly fell into a routine, so normal that Grantaire might have fooled himself into thinking they were a real family. Enjolras woke to nurse him at all hours, and in the interest of fairness Grantaire took over all other duties. Enjolras appeared grateful, murmuring his thanks into his pillow each time Grantaire urged him back to sleep with assurances that he would see to the matter. Grantaire did not mind it at all, not even when he spent several hours pacing the bedroom in his nightshirt, bouncing Camille into a state of contentment. Sometimes Enjolras would watch him for a while, a strange look on his face. Even after weeks of seeing it Grantaire was yet to understand what that look meant.

“There,” he said, after an hour of trying to to settle Camille. “He is finally asleep again.”

“At last,” Enjolras remarked from beneath the covers. “Come back to bed, quickly, before he wakes again.”

Grantaire obeyed, snuffing out the single candle on the nightstand and crawling in beside him. There was a moment of silence - the silence of the countryside, undisturbed and almost deafening – and then he heard the mattress creak as Enjolras shifted closer to him. His hand suddenly touched Grantaire's, so unexpected that it made him jolt. Enjolras retreated instantly, leaving Grantaire cursing his body for the reaction.

“Forgive me,” Enjolras said. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable---”

“You did not,” Grantaire promised, reaching blindly for Enjolras' hand in the dark. He found it, gripping it tightly, pleasantly surprised when he felt Enjolras interlace their fingers in response. “You merely startled me.”

Enjolras made a small sound. “We missed it, did you know?"

“Missed what?”

“June fifth.”

Grantaire frowned. No. That could not be. Surely he was mistaken? The days had flown by since Camille had been born, yes, but surely they would not have forgotten--- “It is June ninth,” Enjolras told him, as though reading his mind.

“My god,” Grantaire said. “You are right.”

“I cannot believe it has been a year,” Enjolras murmured. “I am glad we missed the day. I would not have known how to spend it. There are no graves at which to mourn. All I might have done is gone to church and prayed to a power I do not much believe in.”

Grantaire agreed with his assessment wholeheartedly. He would have gone and prayed elsewhere, most likely into a dram of gin. It was a fortunate thing they had let the date pass them by unacknowledged. What good would it have done, to summon ghosts? They had been busy with their son.

“You are very good with Camille,” Enjolras said, changing the subject. “I did not imagine you would be so well with children, I confess.”

Grantaire smiled to himself. “I like children very much,” he admitted. “They are not yet corrupted by the world. They are full of hope and promise, things we lose when we are grown and we see life's bare face, in all its ugliness. And they speak honestly, always. A child will rarely lie to you about the state of their world, the thoughts in their head. It is refreshing.”

“That is a sad reason to be fond of children,” Enjolras commented. “But I almost understand it, I suppose. There is a certain potential to them that we lack when we are older.”

Grantaire was tempted to make a joke about how odd it was for the two of them to be in agreement of any kind, but he refrained. There was an openness to Enjolras tonight that he so rarely got to enjoy. “They are the best of humanity, for certain,” he said. “Besides that, I all but raised my youngest sister; I have always been predisposed to parenthood, would you believe? I was eleven when she was born, and by the time she was three she called me 'Papa'. I corrected her, of course, but I think she has always seen me as more father than brother. God knows our own father was not present in her youth.”

“Where was he?” Enjolras asked.

“Womanising, I imagine,” Grantaire muttered. “Or gambling, or drinking. Or busy beating my mother, when I was not present to take the brunt of it. He was godly until it suited him not to be, which was most always.”

There was a long silence following his words. So long that he rather feared he had killed the conversation outright.

“I am sorry,” Enjolras whispered eventually; he squeezed Grantaire's hand. “I did not know that – about your father...” he trailed off, apparently failing to find the words he was looking for.

“I do not talk about it much. It is hardly pleasing conversation, it murders any humour in a room quickly as anything and I am loath to do that when humour is all people tolerate me for.”

“That is not true. You are a credit to yourself, Grantaire,” Enjolras said. “You are nothing like him.”

“I drink and gamble like a sailor,” Grantaire said. “And I have certainly never been celibate, like you.”

“But you are not cruel,” Enjolras said firmly. “Not a brute. You have never been ungallant towards me, and you are gentle with our son.”

“Our son is living proof that I was ungallant towards you, Enjolras.”

“How do you mean?”

Grantaire expelled a deep breath. He pried his hand from Enjolras', feeling almost as though he ought to relinquish the privilege. Shame burned up the back of his neck like a rash.

“That night,” he said. “I ought never have touched you.”

“I touched you first,” Enjolras said.

“And I took it further. I rutted away at you like a dog and finished where I had no right, because I cannot leave anything pristine, not even that which I admire,” Grantaire closed his eyes. “I am a wretch, incapable of respecting the sanctity of anything.”

“Sanctity?” Enjolras' voice was suddenly icy. “Is that what you think?”

“Of course it is,” Grantaire said, perhaps too honestly. “I felt as though I had desecrated a church.”

Another beat of silence. And then Enjolras was turning over in bed, pulling the sheets over himself so aggressively that he stripped Grantaire of his share. “Perhaps you are a brute after all,” he said, cold enough to make Grantaire's heart sink like a stone.

“Enjolras---”

“Goodnight.”

-

Enjolras' foul mood did not relent for days, hanging over the house like a shadow. He ignored Grantaire, speaking to him only when it was necessary and in a short, blunt manner. Grantaire was quite at a loss for what to do to. Feeling the need to amend things between he and Enjolras was utterly new to him, for in the past he had always accepted Enjolras' disdain as something that could not be changed. It was usual, expected, deserved. This was surely deserved too, of course, though Grantaire could not quite place what it was about his words that had caused such bitter insult. After all, what could Enjolras have imagined him to feel, that night back in Montmartre? Enjolras must have known what he was to Grantaire – what Grantaire was to him, no more worthy than the cobbles beneath his boots. Mortals were not permitted to touch gods, and more the fools for loving them.

This silent battle raged on between them for a week, broken only when Enjolras set a letter in front of him over breakfast one morning.

“My parents have written,” he announced. “They are demanding we bring Camille to Limoges to be christened there.”

Grantaire stared at the paper before him. Enjolras and his mother had a tellingly similar hand, though Madame Enjolras did not write with the haste of her son. Enjolras wrote everything as though time were of the essence, angrily, as though the paper had scorned him. Grantaire watched him sometimes, entranced. 

“Oh,” was all he found he could say.

“Indeed,” Enjolras said, sitting down to pour his coffee. “We shall have to go,” he added, with an air of regret. “They will never let up until we do, and we rely on their charity.”

“Very well,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras was quiet as he stirred his drink, lips pursed. He looked as though he were building up to something. “I will need a new dress.” he said.

“You have one, do you not?”

“It does not fit me since Camille was born,” Enjolras informed him. “He has left me a little weight I did not have before. Here,” he fished into the pocket of his waistcoat, retrieving a folded slip of paper and passing it across the table to Grantaire. Grantaire took it, scowling.

“I had Marceline measure me,” Enjolras said. “I would have you go into town to the dressmaker and have something made for me. Nothing expensive, and spare any fanciful trimming. It need only be presentable enough for my parents.”

“Why do you not send Marceline with this errand?” Grantaire wondered. “She would no doubt understand more of fashion than I.”

Enjolras hesitated. “I feel you know me better,” he said eventually. “You will not purchase something I may hate.”

“You hope,” Grantaire remarked. “That is a lot of pressure, do you not think?”

“You will manage,” Enjolras said curtly. He rose to his feet, picked up his coffee, and then stormed off to take it elsewhere, apparently done with their conversation. Grantaire glanced at the paper and sighed.

-

**July, 1833.**

-

The coach ride to Limoges was uncomfortable. The vehicle rattled loudly along the dirt roads, jostling and lurching so violently at times that Grantaire was certain he would be flung across the carriage into Enjolras' lap. With things between them as they were Grantaire imagined Enjolras would throw him out for the offence, stopped or no. A private carriage was an expense they would not normally have sprung for and, frankly, should not have – but Enjolras had insisted, determined not to have an audience to his humiliation, and as with all of Enjolras' whims and desires, Grantaire found he was helpless to do anything but indulge him.

The dress had been a success, at least; dark burgundy, the closest to Enjolras' signature red that he could find among the limited fabric choices, and simple. Grantaire thought he had done rather well – he had even had the dressmaker reinforce the bodice in such a way as to compress his chest in the same manner as his bindings. It did not conceal his chest entirely, of course, but it was far better than the other gowns in Enjolras' possession. Enjolras had even given it an approving nod.

The carriage jerked again, and Grantaire found himself gripping the bench to stay seated. He had no idea how Camille, tucked into his bassinet at Enjolras' side, was managing to sleep through the ordeal. Grantaire thought it typical, really. Thunderstorms and carriage rides did not rouse him, but too much silence and he was awake, screaming like a devil. _He sleeps like I do_, Grantaire realised abruptly._ Cannons and guns could not make me stir, but the silence cut through me like a knife. _

“It is stifling in here,” Enjolras said suddenly, drawing him out of his thoughts. He seemed to have conjured a fan from out of his old silk reticule, and was now fanning himself aggressively against the heat with it. Grantaire felt a little of the cool air waft against his face, and envied him. 

“Yes,” he agreed. “The summer is in full swing.”

Enjolras looked him over for a moment, expression blank. He offered him the fan; Grantaire took it gratefully.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, curious. He had not seen it before. 

“Marceline gave it to me,” Enjolras said. He looked away almost evasively. “It reminded me a little of those that Feuilly used to make.”

Grantaire felt his heart sink. He glanced down at the fan, hand-painted and perfect. Yes, Grantaire thought – he could understand why it might do that.

“It is very nice,” he said, voice catching. “Enjolras – may we speak, please?”

“We are speaking presently.”

“That is not what I meant,” Grantaire muttered. “I am sorry that I upset you, with what I said that night.”

Enjolras turned his face towards the window, gazing out at the sprawling wheat fields and endless countryside they were passing through. For a moment Grantaire thought he was ignoring him, but then he spoke, emotionless as ever:

“It did upset me,” he said. “I expected more of you than that.”

“More than what?” Grantaire asked. Quite frankly he thought Enjolras' first mistake was expecting anything of him at all. Had he not learned anything from the Barrière du Maine?

“All that talk of sanctity and leaving things pristine...” Enjolras' lip curled in disgust. “I should have known you would be like most - just as crass, just as brutish, to hold virginity to such a high worth."

“Virginity?” Grantaire said, taken aback. “I---no, Enjolras, you misunderstand. That was not the crux of my torment at all. My god, you could have had a thousand men before me and I would not have cared in the least. Such things do not diminish a person's worth."

"Then what did you mean by it?"

"Only that it was not my place to have you, seeing as I could never be worthy of you."

Enjolras' brows pulled together in confusion. “Why? What makes you think that?"

“Why would I not? It is the natural order of things. I am a wretch, and you are...well, you,” Grantaire hung his head. “Incandescent and untouchable.”

“That is how one describes a star, not a man,” Enjolras said tightly. “And whilst I clearly misunderstood your meaning, I find I do not like this any more, though the reason differs some...” his eyes softened momentarily. “You think too highly of me, Grantaire - and too lowly of yourself.”

“I think only as highly as I have given myself reason to," Grantaire said. 

Enjolras hardened again. “I do not see you as you do. And I would have you be my ally, during this visit. We are married, after all.”

Grantaire felt his breath leave his body in one fell swoop. Their eyes met across the carriage.

And then it lurched, and Enjolras was sent almost a whole foot up into the air, one arm flinging out to keep Camille's bassinet in place. He landed with a startled expression on his face, and any lingering tension smothering the space inside the carriage dissipated like morning mist.

Grantaire laughed, and Enjolras followed suit. Camille woke and began to cry.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a tiny bit of misgendering and also some xenophobia.

-

Grantaire was shaking. The prospect of meeting Enjolras' parents was perhaps more frightening to him than even the barricades – for after all, he had slept through that. There would be no such escaping this ordeal. By the time the coach turned down the long drive of the Limoges estate his stomach was in such turmoil he feared his first introductions to Monsieur and Madame Enjolras would be made with him relinquishing his lunch all over their shoes.

“Do not worry,” Enjolras said, staring out of the window. “I am sure it shall go perfectly fine.” Despite the words of confidence he was gripping his fan so fiercely that Grantaire thought he might snap it in half. Evidently he was just as anxious as he was. There was a lot riding on this visit, after all – perhaps more than either of them dared voice aloud to the other. It was inevitable that Monsieur and Madame Enjolras would not like Grantaire, but if they hated him? Truly despised him? Enjolras' parents held their fates firmly in the palms of their hands. Putting one foot wrong might see them cut off without a sou. With a child to feed Grantaire did not even wish to imagine how they might fair in that event.

The carriage finally shuddered to a sudden halt. Grantaire pulled the curtain aside to glimpse what awaited them. The house was huge, imposing, with a set of grand marble steps leading up to the door and looming pillars either side. As he looked out at this intimidating building the front doors opened and a well-dressed footman came hurrying out to meet them. Two people stepped out after him, arm in arm, chins raised proudly. Both were older than Grantaire had imagined, their hair already silver, but there was no mistaking them as anyone but Enjolras' parents. His father had the same stern mouth and frown, his mother the same soft waves that it was very easy to picture as once as golden as her son's. If this striking resemblance had not served to identify them then Enjolras' reaction would have surely dispelled any doubt; he had become completely stiff.

The coach door opened before Grantaire had a chance to prepare himself. The footman gave a polite bow, and like a fool Grantaire made to return the gesture, making quite a mess of it in such a small space.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, awkwardly stepping out of the carriage. He tried to ignore the muttering he heard as he alighted the cab, turning to help Enjolras down the steps. He came reluctantly, as though the muzzle of a gun were pressed to his back. Grantaire thought he had shown more enthusiasm when faced with the National Guard than he did his own parents. _We have one thing in common then, at least,_ he thought fleetingly.

“Oh, my darling!”

Grantaire turned his head to see Madame Enjolras sweeping past him without even a second glance, embracing Enjolras tightly. “My dear, it is so wonderful to see you!”

“And you, Maman,” Enjolras said quietly as she released him to kiss his cheeks. He cast his gaze into the bassinet knowingly – his mother followed.

“And _this_ must be my sweet grandbabe,” she said, lighting up.

“Yes,” Enjolras confirmed. “Camille.”

“He is absolutely precious,” his mother cooed. “Oh, do let me hold him, won't you?”

She reached for the basket without waiting for an answer. Enjolras pulled it away.

“In a little while,” he said hotly. “He is sleeping.”

His mother's face fell.

“He will be upset if I wake him,” Enjolras reasoned, more gently. His mother recomposed herself.

“Oh, yes. Of course. Very well,” she said. “Come – come inside. You, get her luggage.”

It took Grantaire a moment to realise that she was addressing him. The woman who had not even afforded him a cursory greeting was now staring at him with a hard expression, not unlike one he had seen on her son a thousand times before. She looked as though she were waiting for him to do something.

“Well?” she demanded, waving him off in the direction of the back of the coach. “Get to it!”

Grantaire did as she said, too stunned to do otherwise. As he unloaded the trunk with the help of the footman he watched Enjolras' mother turn back to her son. “Is your manservant slow?” she asked. 

Enjolras looked just as shocked as Grantaire did. He moved his mouth soundlessly for a moment before he was able to force any words out. “My---what?”

“I see your husband did not accompany you,” Madame Enjolras continued, peering into the now empty coach. “And where is your lady's maid? And your wetnurse? Have you any household at all besides this dim-witted footman?”

“Mother – that_ is_ my husband,” Enjolras said, appalled. His mother's face paled dramatically. She looked to Grantaire, eyeing him up and down, and then back to Enjolras.

“Surely not,” she said, as though she thought Enjolras were mistaken. Grantaire grimaced internally, lugging over their trunk and setting it down for the footman to take inside. Madame Enjolras looked utterly mortified, though Grantaire thought it far too hopeful to assume that was due to her own transgression. No, it was far more likely she was getting the measure of the man her child had married and finding him far beneath her expectations.

Grantaire felt Enjolras hook his arm around his, clinging to his side in a way he had never done so before. “Mother, I would like to introduce you to Monsieur Grantaire,” he said. There was a smugness underlying his tone, and Grantaire wondered if he was enjoying disappointing his parents so thoroughly. “My husband.”

“Oh,” Madame Enjolras blinked. Grantaire cleared his throat awkwardly, leaning forward to give her hand a polite kiss.

“A pleasure to meet you, Madame,” he said.

“Yes...charming,” she said, cutting another look at Enjolras. “This is the man you married?”

“Yes,”

“But he is so---”

“So?”

“Unrefined.”

“You have only just met him!”

Madame Enjolras gave a little sniff of disapproval. She turned and strode back over to her husband, who had watched the proceedings unfold with an expression that had not changed. Enjolras' mother murmured something unintelligible to him, and then finally the man stepped forward.

“Marie,” he said, nodding to Enjolras. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

He looked to Grantaire, still as stern as ever. “Monsieur,” he said, extending one hand. Grantaire was almost fearful to take it.

“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Monsieur,” Grantaire said. Enjolras' father narrowed his eyes, squinting as though to get a clearer look at him.

“Where are you from?” he asked, in such an abrupt tone of voice that Grantaire immediately realised it was not being asked as polite conversation. Likely he had seen the less conventional French features in him – the dark hair, the dark eyes, the complexion that tanned to a deep gold in the summer sun. He swallowed hard.

“The Auvergne, Monsieur,” he said. “Though I was born in Valencia.”

“Valencia?” Monsieur Enjolras frowned. “Hm. I had hoped to marry my daughter to a Frenchman...”

“I am French,” Grantaire assured him. “I have not set a foot off French soil since I was seven.”

Monsieur Enjolras did not seem convinced. He glanced into the bassinet at Camille.

“The boy,” he said. “He is healthy?”

“Very, Monsieur,” Grantaire said. “Big for his age, and strong.”

“Good. I suppose that is all that matters, then. Come inside – the housemaid will show you to your room,” with that Enjolras' father turned and began ascending the steps back up to the house, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire to expel a deep breath in unison. Grantaire cast a nervous look at Enjolras.

“It will be fine,” Enjolras said again. His voice quite betrayed his true feelings.

-

“Will you let me see him now?”

“Very well,” Enjolras sighed.

His mother had not once ceased her demands to hold Camille, and after a very tense, quiet tea taken in the parlour there was, it seemed, no proroguing it any longer. Grantaire watched as Enjolras reluctantly lifted the sleeping babe from his bassinet, passing him carefully into his mother's arms. She beamed.

“Oh, he is absolutely beautiful,” she fawned, rocking him gently. “Is he good?”

"Of course he is good. He is a babe."

"I mean well-behaved, of course. Do he sleep well?"

“Like the dead,” Enjolras informed her, still hovering beside her chair. Grantaire had never seen Enjolras so anxious, so protective.

“Well he is charming,” Madame Enjolras said. She looked to her husband. “Do you not agree, dear?”

“He's a healthy boy,” Monsieur Enjolras answered flatly. “That is what matters. Though he's a little too Spanish looking for my liking. Very dark."

Grantaire bristled. As though sensing the tension in the room Camille at last began to stir, uttering a few small whimpers that quickly devolved into wails. Enjolras seemed almost relieved at having been granted an excuse to take him back.

“Let me take him---”

“I can soothe him,” Madame Enjolras insisted, angling the babe away from him.

“Mother, please – he is probably hungry,” Enjolras said. “Give him to me.”

“Oh, yes – of course. Where is your wetnurse? She did not accompany you---”

“He does not have one. I am nursing him myself.”

“Yourself?” Enjolras' mother wrinkled her nose. “Oh come now, really? That is quite beneath you, Marie---”

“He is my child, I will make the decisions for him. Give him to me, mother – please...” he seemed almost frantic – so much so that Grantaire could no longer stand silent and well-behaved in the corner.

“We have not had the money to employ a wetnurse,” he put in, distracting Madame Enjolras long enough for Enjolras to snatch Camille from her arms.

“Ah - I see how it is,” Monsieur Enjolras growled. “I presume you are here to beg for more?”

“Not at all, Monsieur – you misunderstand,” Grantaire said. “I am merely explaining why he---why Enjo---” he foundered, unsure of what to say. To address Enjolras incorrectly felt wrong. It left a foul taste in his mouth. His eyes went to Enjolras, who nodded his consent.

“I am merely trying to explain why my wife is nursing him. It was all we could do, you see.”

Monsieur Enjolras gave a grunt of acknowledgment.

“We had best go up to our room,” Enjolras decided, bouncing Camille gently. “He will need to feed and I must rest awhile, after our taxing journey.”

“Very well. We will see you at dinner,” Madame Enjolras said, appearing vaguely insulted that Camille had been taken from her.

Enjolras gave a clumsy curtsey – proving himself quite out of practice – and then fled the room as though he were fleeing a battlefield, Grantaire following at his heel.

-

“I knew they would be like this,” Enjolras whispered from the armchair by the fire, where he was busy nursing Camille. “They want him for themselves.”

“They are new grandparents,” Grantaire muttered, busying himself with unpacking their things so that Enjolras might have his privacy. “I am sure they are just excited...”

“No. They want him,” Enjolras said. “They will suggest we let him live here, with them. Their excuse will be an education. And if we refuse they will see us poor, to punish us...”

Grantaire was inclined to agree, but he did not think it would do any good to fan the flames of Enjolras' fears into an inferno. He sat down on the bed. “We will not let them,” he promised. “And if they do cut us off, we will survive. I would work myself to death before I would see Camille go without.”

Enjolras shot him a grateful look, covering himself discreetly as Camille finished feeding. “I know,” he said. “Thank you. And I am sorry for what my father said – about – well...” he scowled. “I had no idea you were Valencian.”

_Of course you didn't, _Grantaire thought._ We so rarely ask one another about our lives before that June._

“Half,” he said. “My mother is Valencian. My father is, indeed, French. Did you not wonder why my given name sounds so Spanish?"

"A little," Enjolras said. "But I confess I was rather preoccupied with my own thoughts when I last heard it," _at our wedding,_ Grantaire realised. "Do you speak Spanish, then?”

“Valencian.”

“The languages are similar though, no?”

“Quite,” Grantaire agreed. “It is a dialect of Catalan.”

Enjolras rose to his feet, coming to join him on the bed. “You must teach me sometime,” he urged, transferring Camille into Grantaire's arms. He smiled as he did, so at ease. A stark contrast from how he had handed him to his mother, Grantaire thought. There was trust in it – faith.

“I will, if you want,” Grantaire said. “Are you any decent with languages?”

“I speak English and Italian,” Enjolras told him, a little proudly. “My parents wanted me to have an extensive education. I know a little German, too, though I am clumsy with the pronunciation.”

“And I know Latin,” Grantaire grinned. “We know quite a lot, between us. We could conquer the world, you and I - make an Empire...” he joked. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“Do not tell me you have converted to the beliefs of a Bonapartist!”

“Ah, of course not!" Grantaire said. "To convert I would have had to harbour Republican sentiments to begin with!”

Fortunately Enjolras appeared more amused than annoyed by the comment. He shuffled back on the bed, laying down to get comfortable. “This is my old room, you know?” he said.

“I was wondering,” Grantaire admitted. He had seen the lady's dressing table by the window, the silver hand mirror and comb laid out neatly beside each other.

“I hate it,” Enjolras muttered, turning his face away. “It feels like I am standing in my own tomb. Everything here should be long dead."

Grantaire wished he knew what he could say to him. No words of comfort would come to him, too frightful of saying the wrong thing. He offered him his hand instead.

Enjolras took it with a smile.


	12. Chapter 12

-

The christening the next morning had been an uncomfortable affair.

Between his father's strict hand and realising, from a young age, that he noticed boys too as he did girls, Grantaire had never felt particularly welcome inside any house of God. Though most churches were vast and airy the shame that filled the space inside them was cloistering, suffocating. Enjolras appeared to share his thoughts, for as they left following the service he seemed to draw a great breath of fresh air. Grantaire felt his nails dig into his arm.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, averting his eyes. “It was just difficult, having my parents assign themselves godparents. I suppose it is right, seeing as there is no one else to take on the role...” his voice grew heavy with sadness. “I would have so liked his godfather to be Combeferre or Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire lay one hand gently on his. “Well, we were in a church,” he said. “If you prescribe to such things, then I am certain they were watching...”

Enjolras managed a small smile at that. He nodded, looking down at Camille, resting in the crook of his arm. “They would have loved him,” he said.

“I know,” Grantaire said. “So would Joly and Bossuet.”

A lunch was to follow the service, with many of Enjolras' extended family in attendance. Grantaire could not imagine a more intimidating prospect than to be surrounded by so many people with that hard, severe stare he was so well acquainted with. It seemed to be a family trait.

“I do not want to be here,” Enjolras stated as they lingered by the door.

Grantaire could not have agreed more. Odd, he thought, how often he and Enjolras now seemed to find themselves united, where once they had clashed. He was sure they had only survived the ominously quiet dinner the evening before through each other's presence. 

“Perhaps would could skip it?” he suggested.

“Skip it?” Enjolras frowned. “Where would we go?”

“A ride, perhaps? I saw stables when we arrived.”

Enjolras' brow creased in thought. It should not have been as endearing as it was. “Maybe,” he said. “But Camille...”

“There are enough people here that I do not think your parents would try anything untoward,” Grantaire said. “They are all about propriety in the face of respectable society, are they not?”

“Yes,” Enjolras agreed, glancing over at Camille, who was currently being fussed over by some kindly great aunt or other. “But leaving him feels so unnatural...”

“You must take some time for yourself, Enjolras,” Grantaire said. “He has barely left your arms since he was born. An hour or two will not tear some great rift between you.”

Enjolras nodded. “You are right,” he said. “Very well. I will go an inform my mother that I need some fresh air. You go and pack us a bag – if you go to the kitchens I am certain the staff will prepare us a picnic.”

-

Madame Enjolras had not been best pleased by Enjolras' announcement that he would be missing the lunch.

“What will our guests think?” she demanded as she followed them out towards the stables, where a groom was already preparing two horses for them.

“They will survive our absence,” Enjolras said coolly.

“I do not care about _his_ absence,” his mother stated, glaring at Grantaire at though she suspected him the mastermind of this impropriety. “But you! You need to be there!”

“The room was too crowded,” Enjolras argued. “I was feeling faint. I must take some air.”

“But---”

“We won't be long.”

His mother closed her mouth, looking very much as though she would have liked to continue arguing. The groom led the horses over, Enjolras turning to thank him.

“Riding astride? Are you sure of that?” Madame Enjolras said, looking at the saddle with dismay. “That is hardly fitting for a lady of your stature. And you do not even have appropriate riding clothes!”

“I will manage in this dress, I am sure,” Enjolras assured her. He paused, adding, “Unless you would rather me wear breeches, Maman?”

Madame Enjolras' expression darkened in an instant. “No,” she said sharply. “We have had quite enough of that from you to last a lifetime.”

Enjolras shrugged, hitching up the skirts of his dress so high as he went to mount up that his mother made a little sound of outrage. “Do not fear, Mother,” he said, pulling himself up into the saddle with Grantaire's assistance. “Riding astride is perfectly in fashion, of late. Besides – it is not as if you need worry about preserving my virginity anymore!” he shot her a taunting look. Grantaire hid his face, feeling heat rush to his cheeks.

-

It became very apparent very quickly that Enjolras was not accustomed to riding astride. He seemed stiff in the saddle, clutching the reigns as though his life depended on it, jaw clenched so tightly Grantaire feared he might grind down his teeth.

“You must relax if you can,” he urged. “I assure you it is more comfortable than sidesaddle.”

Enjolras did not look at him – it was as though his pride would not allow for it. “I am fine,” he said.

“Enjolras – you are making the horse skittish. She feels your nerves. Relax your hands...”

Enjolras did as he said, his whole body seeming to loosen as the horse settled into a more steady trot.

“There, you see?” Grantaire smiled. Enjolras gave a short nod.

“Thank you,” he said, almost grudgingly. 

“You are quite welcome..." Grantaire paused. “What your mother said,” he added after a moment, glancing at Enjolras. “About having 'had enough of that from you'...?”

Enjolras stared ahead as they rode. His expression did not change. “Have you ever wondered how I came to be in Paris?” he asked, so lightly it was as though he were changing the subject.

“Occasionally,” Grantaire said.

“I had some interesting habits in my youth that I now realise merely attest to who I am,” Enjolras told him. “I cut my hair short with fabric shears, once, and made a godawful mess of it – things such as that. When I was fourteen I paid a stable boy for a set of his clothes...” his frown deepened ever so slightly, the only perceivable trace of emotion that graced his face as he spoke. “My father caught me. He is a cold, stern man as you have clearly now seen – but he was never...well, he was not like yours,” his grip on the reigns tightened again, and the horse gave a snort. “But that day was different. He struck me. Across the face - so hard I remember tasting blood in my mouth.”

Grantaire stared at him, lost for words.

“He and my mother had a terrible fight that evening. They spoke as though I were not in the room. My father wished to send me away to a hospital...”

“A hospital?”

“A madhouse,” Enjolras clarified, casting him a sober look. “My mother convinced him otherwise, fortunately. She said he could not send me there, as I may not come back – and they needed me to produce a few male heirs. That was her reasoning. Not that she loved me. Not that I was their child. That they needed me to give them grandchildren...”

Grantaire felt sick. Suddenly it was easy to understand why he had hesitated to keep Camille. Even if he wanted the babe it must have felt as though allowing his parents a victory, as though children were inevitable to one with his anatomy. It was a fortunate thing that the love in Enjolras' heart was greater than his pride.

“They reached a tense agreement,” Enjolras continued. His voice was flat. “I was sent to Paris, instead. My mother had friends there – the lady of the house taught etiquette, and she had a daughter of an age with me. They thought spending time with her would put an end to my unusual habits.”

“And did it?”

Enjolras' lips finally curled into a smile. “I was on a barricade in my male attire, brandishing a carbine and a flag. What do you suppose?”

Grantaire chuckled.

-

They carried on until they reached a wooded copse, where the ground was dappled with sunlight and birds were singing in the tree tops. It looked to be a fine place to stop for a picnic, in Grantaire's opinion. He might have even been swayed to paint it, if the right person had asked.

“Perhaps we should stop here?” Enjolras said, as though reading his mind. Grantaire smiled.

“That would be good,” he agreed. “I have a couple of surprises for you, anyway.”

“Surprises?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said, dismounting. “Two. I hope you like them.”

“I am only slightly concerned,” Enjolras said, alighting the saddle rather awkwardly. Grantaire was inclined to help him, but he feared to do so might only wound Enjolras' dignity further. “I feel so ungainly in this dress,” Enjolras complained, straightening out his skirts once he'd planted his feet on solid ground.

“Well then at least one of my surprises shall clearly be well received,” Grantaire said. He dug into the saddlebag he had brought with him, retrieving the clothing he had packed. “Here.”

“You packed some of my clothes?” Enjolras said, brightening at the sight of the familiar garments.

“Indeed. You ought not be forced to dress as a woman the whole time we are visiting. There is nobody to see us here – go and change when and where you see fit,” Grantaire said, passing the clothes to him. He took out a blanket, laying it down on the grass.

“And your other surprise?” Enjolras queried.

“Ah,” Grantaire grinned. “Here---” he reached into the bag again, this time pulling out a dish. He had wrapped it well in cheesecloth to try and keep the contents in tact, but there was only so much he could do against the jostling of a horse's gait. Fortunately, most of it seemed to have survived relatively unscathed.

Enjolras' eyes lit up. “Clafouti?”

“Indeed. You like it, don't you?”

“Yes. Where on earth did you get it?”

“From the kitchens, of course,” Grantaire said. He had pilfered it when he went in to ask a kitchenmaid to pack a picnic for their ride. He had seen it unattended and remembered that it was Enjolras' favourite.

Enjolras shot him a chiding look. “You stole it, you mean?”

“Well, in my defence, it _was _unguarded,” Grantaire said. “And besides which, stealing is a matter of perspective, here. I married into this family, did I not? This house will one day be yours. Ergo, this clafouti is surely mine to take.”

Enjolras snorted, amused - but disapproving. “I suppose,” he said. “But promise you will make it known that you took it when we get back. I do not want any of the kitchen staff getting blamed for it.”

“Of course,” Grantaire agreed, hand on his heart. “Only do visit me when your father puts me in jail.” he joked. Enjolras laughed – the first laugh in days.

-

The next hour was spent peacefully, the two of them lounging across the blanket in comfortable silence. Enjolras had changed into his usual attire and seemed more than glad of it, the most relaxed Grantaire had seen him since they had arrived in Limoges. With their stomachs full of clafouti, cheese, and bread, and the warm sunlight caressing their faces, Grantaire thought the two of them might even fall asleep there. He closed his eyes, listening as the summer breeze whispered through the leaves. This tranquillity was a welcome break from Enjolras' family. He was glad he had suggested it.

“Grantaire?”

Enjolras' voice made him open his eyes again. He turned his head to look at him, finding Enjolras staring at him. His eyes were captivating, rivaling the blue of the sky.

“Yes?”

“I have just realised,” Enjolras said. “I did not thank you.”

“Thank me? Oh – for the clafouti? Do not, I beg - it was already yours, technically---”

“No – no, not that,” Enjolras' expression was serious. “For saving my life.”

Grantaire did not know how to respond. He had not expected that.

“I have been discourteous,” Enjolras continued, sitting up. “You were right, with what you said of me that time in the Musain – I am an ingrate.”

“You do not need to thank me, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered. “It is not something I did for gratitude.”

“But worthy of it all the same,” Enjolras said. “I have not been good to you. You saved my life, got us away from Paris. Worked yourself near to death to keep a roof over our heads. I was so devastated by what happened that June that I did not stop to acknowledge how much you have done for me...”

“I did it for myself, too,” Grantaire said, looking away. Enjolras' gaze was too intense to bear. Once more he felt like he was like staring into the sun – only this time the sun was staring back. “I did not want to be homeless and hungry any more than you did.”

“But you didn't have to stand up and save me,” Enjolras argued. “They could have shot you on sight, Grantaire. You were brave. Far braver than I ever gave you credit for. Forgive me, for underestimating you.”

“I was not brave, Enjolras,” Grantaire said. “I was desperate. I did not want to live in a world without you.”

Enjolras was silent for a moment.

“I don't----I do not understand...” he said at last. “Why?”

Grantaire's stomach churned. He was worried the clafouti was about to come back up, though he supposed that would be fair penance for having stolen it in the first place. “Why do you think?” he said softly.

“I do not---”

“I was not brave, Enjolras. I was in love.”

Grantaire had never seen Enjolras left so speechless so immediately. It would have been a comical sight, under different circumstances. Indeed, if he had managed to render him thus years ago in the Musain with a clever comment or dry retort he would have been most proud. As it stood, however, Grantaire felt as though his heart was about to leap up into his throat. Enjolras looked pensive for a long while, and then finally said something Grantaire had not anticipated:

“_Was_?”

Grantaire grimaced. “Was, am, always will be, I am sure...”

More silence from Enjolras. More horrible coiling in Grantaire's gut. He did not know what to say now. Should he apologise? It felt like the thing to do, for surely no one could be pleased by such news. A wretch like him, in love with him? Enjolras was probably busy quantifying his disgust---Grantaire's train of thought was derailed in an instant by warm lips against his own. He froze, stunned, and realised that Enjolras was kissing him_._

It was chaste - or else confused, unsure. But definitely a kiss. Soft and tentative, the way one tests something. Grantaire felt himself melt into it without even needing to try.

He was kissing him. Kissing him, sweetly, carefully, in a way that screamed of inexperience. Was this the first time Enjolras had ever kissed someone, he wondered? Almost instinctively Grantaire brought one hand up to cup Enjolras' cheek. Perhaps he had fallen asleep afterall. Perhaps this was a dream. He almost hoped it was, for he was feeling suddenly emboldened. He leaned deeper into the kiss, parting Enjolras' lips with his tongue; he felt Enjolras shiver, uttering a little sound of pleasure into his mouth. It was divine. It was perfect. It was over much too soon.

Enjolras pulled back, dropping his gaze almost coyly. It was charming to behold, and left Grantaire almost as breathless as the kiss had.

“We should get back,” he said. “Camille will be missing us, and I do not trust my parents with him for any length of time.”

“I---yes. Yes, you are right,” Grantaire spluttered, somehow managing to gather purchase on his senses again. “It has been a while, we should return...”

Enjolras rose to his feet, stretching his arms above his head. “I do hate that gown,” he said, picking the garment up. “But I suppose it is only another day or so...”

Grantaire nodded. “We will be home before you know it,” he said. How could Enjolras speak so casually after what had just happened? Had Grantaire imagined it? He turned away as Enjolras changed back into his dress, stuffing his male attire back into the saddlebag.

“Come along, then,” Enjolras urged when he was done, starting towards the horses. “Camille will be hungry.”

Grantaire followed without hesitation. Just as he always had.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homoeroticism and attempting to bond with the family, in this one.

-

Enjolras said nothing of the kiss all evening. It was as though to him it had not happened at all, or else was not important enough to warrant mentioning. Grantaire was starting to wonder if he had dreamed it afterall, though he was certain his imagination was not as ambitious as that. It had been real, he was sure of it. The soft, warm press of lips against his own, somewhat dry from the hot weather. The taste of cherries in his mouth from the clafouti. He could not have imagined it.

“Today was not as awful as expected,” Enjolras said, as they began to ready themselves for bed. Camille was already sleeping soundly in his bassinet, clearly exhausted by the day's events. Grantaire imagined being passed from one distant relation to another all afternoon was rather tiring for one so small.

“Yes,” Grantaire said, sitting down on the bed and pulling his cravat away. The heat had left the collar of his shirt clinging damply to his neck. “The picnic was pleasant.”

“It was,” Enjolras agreed. He did not follow it up with any mention of the kiss, as Grantaire had hoped he might. He wondered if he should be the one to bring it up – or if he even ought to at all. Before he could come to a decision Enjolras sent his thoughts careening wildly off course by starting to undress. Grantaire had become used to Enjolras retreating behind a screen to change into his nightshirt, but now here he was, suddenly discarding his clothing as nonchalantly as anything in the middle of the room. Grantaire did not know what to do.

“I am glad that there is only one more day to this visit,” Enjolras continued. He crossed the room to the dresser to retrieve his nightshirt, completely bare, and Grantaire could not help but watch. Perhaps the kiss _had_ been a dream – perhaps he was dreaming still, or else he had taken a bad fall from his horse and cracked his head open on the ground. Maybe it was the years of too much absinthe finally taking their toll.

“Y-yes,” Grantaire nodded. The word had almost gotten lost in his throat. “So am I.”

“Perhaps if we are quiet and polite we will get through it unscathed,” Enjolras mused, almost to himself. He slipped his nightshirt over his head, and at last Grantaire was able to breathe again. Enjolras turned to look at him, expression unchanged. “Are you quite alright?”

“I am fine,” Grantaire said.

“Truly?”

“Yes. Merely tired, a little dizzy– I think the heat has left my head in quite a state...”

Enjolras hummed. He padded over to the bed, running his fingers gently through Grantaire's curls when he reached him. His touch set every inch of Grantaire's body alight.

“You ought to get into your nightshirt,” he advised. “And try to sleep it off.”

Grantaire nodded, feeling his heart all but stop as Enjolras moved to assist him with his braces. Clearly when he had said that he had intended to be of service. Grantaire swallowed hard. Enjolras' hands were unsettlingly close to the crotch of his trousers, hands working deftly to free the buttons. As he completed his task he brushed against him in such a way that Grantaire's hands went flying out to his sides to grip the edge of the mattress. He was going to be hard by the time he was down to his smallclothes if Enjolras continued. Deciding that it would probably be an unpleasant surprise Grantaire reluctantly reached out and caught his hand to stop him.

“Thank you,” he said. “But I do not feel so ill as to need assistance.”

Enjolras blinked. Still his expression gave nothing away. “Oh,” he said, withdrawing. “Of course. Forgive me. I was merely trying to be helpful...”

“You are always helpful,” Grantaire said. Enjolras smiled, settling into the bed as Grantaire excused himself to finish undressing behind the screen. He was in the middle of pulling his shirt over his head when he heard a knock at the bedroom door.

“I will go,” Enjolras said. Grantaire listened as he threw back the covers.

“I am sorry to intrude at this hour, Madame,” Grantaire recognised the voice of the footman who had greeted them in the drive a few days earlier. “I have a note I was bid to deliver.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Enjolras said. “Goodnight.”

The door closed again. Silence for a while. And then:

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire hurriedly finished changing, stepping back out to find Enjolras staring at him in dismay. There was a slip of paper in one of his hands.

“Is something the matter?” Grantaire asked.

“My father is going hunting in the morning, at dawn,” Enjolras reported. “He asks that you accompany him.”

Grantaire blanched. “Hunting?” he echoed. He had never been hunting before in his life. He did not imagine himself well-suited to it. And besides that---well--- “You don't think he plans to shoot me, do you?”

“No!” Enjolras said, aghast. “Well – I don't believe so, anyway...”

“You do not sound certain.”

“He would not shoot you. But I am fearful that if anything should happen to you he...might delay getting a physician. People fall from their horses on hunts often...” Enjolras scrunched up the paper. “You must decline the invitation.”

“How can I?” Grantaire said. “He is my father-in-law, and we are trying to appease them. The insult of refusing would surely be far more dangerous than accepting.”

Enjolras appeared unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

“Mostly. I do not have much of a choice, you realise?” Grantaire smiled weakly. “Who knows, I might be good at it! Maybe I will take down a fine, noble stag and impress him?” he joked, hoping to lift the tension. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

-

Mist was still rising off the fields when the hunting party mounted up to leave. The sun was not yet even all the way above the horizon, and though the summer heat had been relentless of late it was so early that a chill still clung to the air. Grantaire was starting to think that Enjolras was right – his father may not have been brazen enough to point his musket at him, but it was not beyond belief that he might be hoping Grantaire suffered some dreadful accident; he had been given the most restless horse in the stables, a skittish gelding that snorted and stomped as it waited to leave.

“You can still change your mind,” Enjolras said. He had left Camille sleeping with one of the housemaids to watch over him so that he could see Grantaire off, and in truth Grantaire was touched that he had chosen to do so. But then Enjolras always rose early, so he supposed it was hardly a hardship for him.

“It will be fine,” Grantaire promised. He did not know where he was drawing this confidence from, or if it was in any way warranted, but so far Monsieur Enjolras had not been entirely unpleasant. He had even given an approving nod when Grantaire had managed to get some control over his horse and told him how he had grown up riding from a young age.

Enjolras scowled. “If you are certain,” he said.

“Reasonably so,” Grantaire shrugged. He smirked then. “How rare, Enjolras, for me to be the optimist and you the cynic.”

Enjolras' frown deepened. “I do not wish for you to be hurt,” he said. “That is all.”

“I know. And I appreciate the concern,” Grantaire said. The horn sounded and several of the men rode out, Grantaire's gelding stomping again in frustration. The hounds began to bay.

“I had best follow,” he remarked. Enjolras caught his hand suddenly, Grantaire watching in stunned awe as he brought Grantaire's knuckles to his lips to kiss them. It was such a tender gesture that for a moment Grantaire found himself forgetting all about the hunt. The horn sounded again, more distantly.

“Go on then,” Enjolras murmured, relinquishing his hand and stepping back. “Take care.”

“I will,” Grantaire said, breathless. “And truly – I say it again: it will be fine!”

-

It was not fine.

At they rode back to the house a few hours later Grantaire trailed behind at the back of the party, Monsieur Enjolras' words still ringing in his ears.

Enjolras was waiting for him when they returned. He looked cold and uncomfortable, and Grantaire found himself wondering if he had gone back inside at all.

“How was it?” he asked immediately when Grantaire brought his horse to a stop. Grantaire opened his mouth to answer, but was beaten to it by his father-in-law.

“The man is a disgrace,” he snarled from atop his horse, an intimidating white stallion. “A spineless fool!”

Enjolras recoiled in surprise, looking to Grantaire for an explanation.

“We could not find a stag,” Grantaire said quietly. “But the hounds caught the scent of a fox...”

“The damned creature ran right out in front of him and froze in fear – he had a clear shot!” Monsieur Enjolras raved, nostrils flaring. “Instead he lowered his musket and let the wretched thing go!”

Grantaire hung his head, shame burning up the back of his neck.

“He made a laughing stock of our family in front of the entire hunting party,” he continued. “What kind of man cannot shoot a fox?!”

“One with compassion,” Enjolras answered shortly. Grantaire looked up. He was meeting his father's gaze sternly, chin raised in defiance. “Killing ought to only be done when it is absolutely necessary. I do not think there is any weakness in mercy.”

“Tell that to the farmer whose chickens the beast slaughters,” his father snapped. “Cowardly Catalan!” Grantaire did not bother to correct him, for he did not think Monsieur Enjolras necessarily cared about the distinction.

“That boy of yours is doomed!” he added, before riding away to join the rest of the hunting party for port. Grantaire had not been invited.

“I am sorry,” Grantaire said when he and Enjolras were alone again. “I should have just killed it, made him happy...”

“No,” Enjolras said. His voice was firm. “You need not compromise yourself for his satisfaction. My father is a brute.”

“I could not shoot it,” Grantaire lamented, gripping the reigns tightly. “I could not. It is summer – it likely has cubs. I could only think of Camille, though I do not know why...” he shook his head. “I saw fear in its face and I could not pull the trigger. Perhaps it is a good thing I was not on the barricades – I would have surely proven useless. I do not think I have it in me.”

“You may be better than I, then,” Enjolras whispered. A look passed between them that was hard to place. And then Grantaire smiled slightly.

“Thank you,” he said. “For not being ashamed of me.”

“You have not given me any cause to be,” Enjolras insisted. “Come – let us get you inside. It is starting to warm up and you will sweat to death in those clothes.”

Grantaire nodded, alighting the horse and passing the reigns over to a waiting groom.

“Dinner will not be a pleasant affair, I imagine,” he said as he and Enjolras headed back towards the house. “Your father's opinion of me is not likely to be salvaged.”

“Then that is his loss,” Enjolras decided, linking their arms. “And my gain.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gets a chance to stand up for what he believes in...

-

“There is something we ought to discuss.”

Grantaire glanced up from his meal – straight into the cold, stern eyes of Monsieur Enjolras. The last few dinners had been spent in uncomfortable silence, but now, the night before they were due to return home, Enjolras' father had apparently decided it was time to start a dialogue. Grantaire had a horrible feeling he knew what the subject of this conversation was to be.

“That boy,” Monsieur Enjolras started, wiping his mouth with a serviette. Grantaire's stomach sank, his worst fears confirmed. “He needs a strong male role model.”

Enjolras scoffed under his breath, pushing the food around on his plate with his fork. His father's eyes cut to him.

“He will remain here, with us.” he decided. “He will have a better education, a more promising future---”

“No,” Enjolras said instantly, looking up. “No – please.”

“He needs to be afforded the opportunities that come with his good birth,” his father insisted.

Enjolras shook his head. “No,” he said again. He reached across the table for his mother's hand, so imploring that it as good as broke Grantaire's heart to witness it. “Please, mother---”

“It will be best for him,” Madame Enjolras said, drawing her hand back stiffly.

“_He _is clearly no fit father,” Monsieur Enjolras continued, taking a large swig of wine. “The man could not shoot a fox, how can he raise a strong boy?”

“I do not care! Please!” Enjolras cried, so desperately that Grantaire was left too stunned to say anything himself. Never once in the years of knowing him had he heard Enjolras beg. It did not seem something he was capable of. Marble was inflexible. Gods did not kneel. Saints and martyrs accepted their fates with dignity. Enjolras did not _beg_.

“Please, you cannot take him from me!” Enjolras said, looking between his parents. “He needs me.”

“He will have better prospects here,” his mother reasoned, pointedly turning her attention back to her food. Grantaire wondered if she did so to avoid Enjolras' pleading gaze.

“I will not let you do this,” he said.

“You have no choice,” his father barked. He set down his glass, straightening himself up. “If you do not comply with our wishes I will cut off your allowance. Would you have your son go about hungry, in rags, because you have too soft a heart to part with him? Do not be so selfish. Think of the boy's future.”

Enjolras inhaled sharply – the sound of someone on the very brink of tears. “Please...” he said again, weaker,_ defeated_.

Grantaire did not know what emboldened him to do what he did next. Love, most likely, for both Camille and Enjolras, for the small, fragile, unorthodox family they had built together. And a kiss, the memory of it still lingering on his lips. He rose to his feet so abruptly that his chair screeched back against the marble floor. Monsieur and Madame Enjolras stopped eating.

“No,” he said, as firmly as he could muster. “No, I---Camille will remain with us. His parents.”

Enjolras' father sighed. “Monsieur---”

“No. Listen to me,” Grantaire snapped. He could feel his heart beating furiously in his chest. From the corner of his vision he saw Enjolras staring at him in wide-eyed astonishment. “He will be returning home with us, Monsieur. Our family is not yours to meddle with.”

“Monsieur---”

“I said _listen to me!_”

Silence around the table. Monsieur Enjolras' face was as red as a tomato; evidently the man was not accustomed to being told 'no'. Grantaire took a deep breath.

“There will no doubt be more children, in time,” he said. Monsieur Enjolras did not need to know how unlikely that was. “If you demand to keep Camille here then I shall relocate my family to Valencia. You will never know your other grandchildren. I will raise them to speak Valencian and curse the French language. I will be certain that they loathe you. And if Camille is not what you wished for from an heir, or – god forbid – something should happen to him, you will be left with no one. I am sure you are a gambling man, Monsieur, but are you quite willing to gamble with something so precious as your legacy?”

By the end of his speech he was panting, hands curled into fists at his sides. “There,” he said, sitting back down. “You had given your ultimatum, Monsieur – and I have given mine.”

Monsieur Enjolras was quiet for a long time. So long that Grantaire feared he might draw a pistol from beneath the table and shoot him there and then, having missed the opportunity on the hunt. He felt Enjolras' hand on his knee beneath the table. He was trembling too.

“I think perhaps the two of you ought to be excused from dinner,” Enjolras' father said at last. “Your husband is evidently very tired from today's activities. He knows not what he says.”

Enjolras stood, pulling Grantaire up with him. “Yes, father,” he said, shooting Grantaire a significant look. “Come.”

Grantaire nodded. He straightened up his waistcoat and gave a short, awkward bow. “Goodnight, Monsieur. Madame,” Enjolras' parents did not respond, watching him through narrowed eyes as Enjolras led him from the room.

-

“I am sorry,” Grantaire blurted the moment they were in the bedroom. “I---I am sorry. I do not know what came over me, truly, I was just – you were so, and it made me so---I am sorry.”

“It is fine,” Enjolras said, in a voice that very much implied it was not. He began to pace back and forth, wringing his hands nervously. “We need to leave,” he said. “Tonight. They won't let us go in the morning, I know it – they'll take Camille from us.”

“That is kidnap,” Grantaire protested. “They cannot, surely...”

“My father has money and power you nor I could hope to wield,” Enjolras told him bluntly. “Do you really think that he cannot simply take something if he wants it? He would paint me as mad, and you as a scoundrel, and our son would be lost to us forever.”

The guilt stirred up in Grantaire's gut was almost sickening. He was right, of course – he would know better than anyone. And was it not true, that wealthy men could flout the rules? He glanced into the bassinet at Camille, sleeping peacefully, and wanted to weep. He would fight for him, if he had to. He had not been on the barricade, had not been able to stomach the thought of picking up a gun – but this? He would fight for this. It seemed in his odd little family Grantaire had at last found a cause that brought forth in him what Liberty brought forth in Enjolras.

“We will leave, then,” he said. “Right now,” with that he crossed the room and threw open their trunk, starting to pack. “Is there a maid here you trust to take a message to the stables?”

“I think so,” Enjolras said. “I will go and find her---”

He broke off at the sound of a knock on the door. They both froze.

“Madame?” a muffled voice called through the wood. “Madame, I have a note from your father I am bid to deliver.”

Enjolras let out a shaky sigh, heading for the door to answer it. Grantaire slid their trunk behind the screen; it was best the footman not see that they were making haste to leave. He watched Enjolras reached through a small crack in the door to take the letter, unfolding it with trembling hands. He read it, and Grantaire could do nothing but stand there and wait.

“My God,” Enjolras whispered. He lowered the note, staring at him.

“What?” Grantaire asked, dreading his reply.

“He has accepted,” he said. “Your threat was apparently enough to sway him...”

Grantaire felt his legs practically give way from under him. It was fortunate the wall was close enough to steady him. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Enjolras said. “He wants regular reports on Camille's education, but he is willing to acquiesce to our wish that he remains with us. Providing----” he paused, face red.

“Providing?”

“Providing you follow through on your comment about more grandchildren.”

Grantaire swallowed hard. “Ah,” he said. “I---forgive me. I am sorry about that, I...I merely said whatever I thought might change his mind...”

Enjolras scrunched up the note, shrugging. He turned, leaning into Camille's bassinet to kiss his forehead as he slept. “Well, we ought never say never to such things.”

“Certainly, but I---wait,” Grantaire frowned. “What?”

Enjolras did not supply an answer, instead starting to unpin his hair. “Come,” he urged, shaking his head so that his long golden waves fell loose. “We should sleep. We have a long journey home tomorrow, do we not?”

“I---yes. Of course,” Grantaire nodded. “A long journey indeed.”

-

Grantaire had never been so relieved to climb into a carriage as he was the next morning. They had broken fast with Enjolras' parents - a chillingly quiet affair, given the showdown the night before – and then bid them farewell, Madame Enjolras fussing relentlessly over Camille.

As the coach rattled along they watched the grand house grow smaller and smaller, until it was little more than a dot on the distant horizon. Enjolras breathed a heavy sigh, as though he had been holding his breath the entire visit.

“I will not miss Limoges,” he said, staring out of the window. “Nor the memories that accompany it.”

Grantaire managed a small smile. “Hopefully we will not have to endure another visit for a long time.”

“Hopefully,” Enjolras agreed. He looked across at him, blue eyes sparkling strangely. “I still cannot believe you bested my father. You – the cynic, the man who does not believe in anything. You stood up to him and defied him and you _won..._”

“I told you,” Grantaire said. “I believe in you. It is only a logical extension, then, to say that I believe in him also...” he looked meaningfully to Camille, babbling quietly in his basket. “I was not about to let anything take him from me.”

Quite unexpectedly, Enjolras moved – practically launching himself across the carriage. He placed his hands either side of Grantaire's face and kissed him, deeply, like a dying man gasping for air. It was over before Grantaire could reciprocate, and he was back in his seat again in an instant, smiling as he gazed out of the window.

Grantaire thought his heart was like to explode.

“The countryside is nice here though, is it not?” Enjolras asked after a while.

“Y-yes,” Grantaire spluttered. “Very nice.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this is a bit of a raunchy one...no smut yet, but, uh...well...

-

Returned at last to their secluded home in the countryside Enjolras seemed to become Enjolras once more – or rather, some alternative yet recognisable version of him. He still did not talk of politics or Paris, but away from his parents and back in the more appropriate attire he was restored at least of his dignity. The man who Grantaire had watched shrink and shy beneath his father's gaze for the last week was but a distant memory, and Enjolras seemed determined that he forget him altogether, stern and severe once again. 

Mostly, anyway. There was some slight differences that Grantaire could not help but wonder on. Enjolras' softness towards Camille was not new, and though before that June it would have been bizarre even to imagine it, Grantaire did not find it particularly shocking or unexpected. Camille was his child, and even wild beasts became tame creatures in the presence of their offspring. Lions retracted their claws around their cubs, wolves nursed their pups with great tenderness. No, that was not a baffling change – what was baffling, rather, was that this new gentleness appeared to extend to Grantaire.

Some shift had surely taken place, some realignment of planets, some disorder in the stars and the natural order of things, for Enjolras had begun to treat him with nothing short of unbridled affection. He would often press chaste kisses to Grantaire's cheeks, would smile at him sometimes, as they sat across from each other in the parlour. At night he invited himself into Grantaire's arms, sleeping close against him, and in the mornings he would rise first to prepare coffee for them both, grinding the beans himself. These small acts of intimacy did not make sense, but were very welcome nonetheless. Nothing had been said of their picnic in Limoges, and nothing had been said of the kiss – kisses – that had followed it. It occurred to Grantaire after a month of this that it was perhaps Enjolras seeking a compromise – a first, from a man who had refused to settle for anything before that June. Enjolras could surely never love him the way Grantaire would have liked, but a kiss upon the cheek, a cup of coffee in the morning – those were small gestures that Enjolras could bestow.

That or Enjolras at last considered them friends, and was merely displaying as much affection to him as he had Combeferre and Courfeyrac. That seemed just as likely. He had always been enviably tactile with the two of them. If that was so, then Grantaire was happy. Enjolras' friendship was something he had thought quite out of his reaching.

-

**October, 1833.**

-

Summer died a miserable death, passing quietly into Autumn, and as the leaves rusted around them life seemed to find a strange sort of balance. Grantaire refrained from drinking most often – though that was not to say he had not occasionally ventured into town to the inn – and Camille grew bigger and stronger with every day, so much so that he now slept in his own nursery. Enjolras had begged Marceline to remain with them as household staff upon their return from Limoges, and most fortunately for them the young woman had agreed. Grantaire hardly blamed her, with the amount of money Enjolras had offered as an incentive. It was the sort of wage that might be expected of a footman, not a housemaid. With all of this to take into account it was a small wonder there was newfound harmony to their lives.

“Do you know the date?” Enjolras asked that evening as he read by the fire.

Grantaire looked up from his sketchbook. “No,” he said. “What is it?”

“October sixteenth,”

“Ah,” Grantaire said, quite at a loss for why he was telling him this. Enjolras did not seem pleased.

“The anniversary of our wedding,” he clarified. Grantaire felt heat rush to his face.

“Oh – of course,” he said. “Forgive me, I did not mean to forget...” in truth he had not forgotten so much as not made an effort to remember. He had thought Enjolras would be eager to put that cold, uncomfortable morning that they had been tied together behind them. That he had made a point of memorising the date made no logical sense at all. But then, Enjolras had always been somewhat of a pedant for detail – perhaps he had not even had to try.

“It is alright,” Enjolras said, relaxing slightly. His brow remained stern, and he looked rather as though he had been training himself out of responding harshly to such things. “I know you have been working hard today – it is unsurprising it might slip your mind.”

That was an understatement. Grantaire had spent much of the day fighting with the gate at the end of their driveway. For all his efforts it was proving complicated to fix, and Grantaire was no locksmith, when all was said and done. It was starting to look like it would need replacing entirely, a task he would not be able to get started on until the warmer weather returned. He was aching from head to toe.

“Yes, well, it is still bad form of me,” Grantaire said.

“It has been a whole year,” Enjolras closed his book.

“Indeed. It has flown by, has it not?” Grantaire glanced down at his sketch – Enjolras, of course, caught in the halfway point between light and shadow, illuminated on one side by the fire.

“It has,” Enjolras agreed. A long pause. A log crackling, louder than Grantaire could ever remember the sound being before.

“I think I will retire upstairs...” Enjolras said suddenly. Grantaire frowned.

"So early?"

Enjolras was not prone to turning in until past midnight most evenings, a restless habit leftover still from his days of working into the small hours.

“Yes,” Enjolras said. “Will you be joining me...?”

“Ah – in a little while.”

“Very well...” Enjolras rose from his seat, setting his book down on the table. “Do not be too long.”

“I won't,” Grantaire promised. He watched as Enjolras smoothed out his waistcoat and left the room, still finding the whole exchange baffling. He turned his attention back to his sketch and sighed. It did not do him justice.

-

When Grantaire ventured upstairs to bed some forty minutes later he was not expecting to find Enjolras still awake. He was also not expecting to find him lying on top of the sheets as opposed to under them, nightgown ruched up to expose his legs. The sight made him freeze up in the doorway, unable to take another step into the room.

“Oh. I thought you might be sleeping...” he said, forcing the words past his lips. Enjolras shifted on the mattress, granting Grantaire a fleeting glimpse of an inner thigh. He looked away, breath hitching.

“I could not,” Enjolras said, propping himself up on his elbows.

“That is likely because you retired far earlier than usual.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Ah,” Grantaire swallowed hard. “Well, that is very kind of you...”

“Are you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Grantaire snapped his head up to look at him.

“From working on the gate today,” Enjolras pressed. “It looked difficult. You must be aching terribly...”

“Oh---yes,” Grantaire nodded. “I am, a little. It is no trouble, though...” _Looked difficult_, he thought. Had Enjolras been watching him from the window?

“I could draw you up a bath, if you would like,” Enjolras offered. He sat up in full then, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as though he meant to stand.

“No – it is rather too late for that, do you not think?” Grantaire said. “And it is a struggle, bringing all those pails of water up the stairs. I would not like you aching too, in an effort to dispel my pains.”

“Well I imagine the hot water would help me, also,”

“Yes, but---pardon?” Grantaire blinked. Enjolras did not answer.

“Perhaps I can do something else for you,” he mused instead. “Have you heard of massage? I imagine Joly would have mentioned it. It seems something he would have studied. Combeferre told me about it, he said it could be quite helpful in relieving muscular pains...”

“Massage?” Grantaire was sure his voice had sprung up about three octaves at the word. Of course he'd heard of it. It was not a new phenomenon, though it had only begun to take fashion in Paris. It had been practised for centuries in the East, and Grantaire was more well-read than he owned to. “I---yes, I have...”

“I do not know much about it, myself,” Enjolras confessed, already starting for the washstand in search of something. “But I can try, at the very least. Take your shirt off.”

Grantaire did not know how to respond. The safest course of action would be to politely decline, but Enjolras seemed so earnest in his desire to help that disappointing him felt almost criminal. And he was already heading back over to the bed with a small vial in his hand - the rose oil he used to keep his hair soft and sweet smelling, Grantaire recognised.

“Well?” he said. “Your shirt...”

Grantaire complied, helpless to do anything else. His fingers shook as they fought to unbutton his waistcoat.

“Do you want help?” Enjolras offered.

“No, thank you,” Grantaire said, pulling his shirt over his head. He threw it aside and did not move from the spot, feeling a little like his feet had taken root in the floor. Enjolras looked him up and down.

“Come over here then, and lay down on the bed,” he instructed at last. “On your front, I imagine is easiest. Is it your back that hurts?”

“My shoulders, mostly...” Grantaire told him, doing as he said. He felt the mattress dip as Enjolras joined him, and then – _oh, God_ – he was straddling him. Grantaire closed his eyes, heart hammering in his chest.

“Forgive me if I am clumsy,” Enjolras said. “I am unfamiliar with the proper technique...”

Grantaire listened as he uncorked the bottle, smelt roses in the air, and then felt the oil land coldly on his back. He startled.

“I am sorry---” Enjolras said.

Grantaire buried his face into his pillow. “It is alright...”

“I ought to have warmed it first,” Enjolras deduced. “Hopefully my hands will do that.”

Before Grantaire had a chance to reply he was touching him, hands running firmly along his back. His movements were slow, languid, and Grantaire was sure it would have felt wonderful were he not fighting determinedly with his own arousal.

“Does it feel good?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire grit his teeth. Questions like that were not helping him win his battle.

“Yes,” he bit out. “Very good. Thank you.”

Enjolras seemed content with his answer. He moved his hands up towards Grantaire's shoulders, kneading at them furiously. He was a little too rough.

“I'm very grateful you were working on the gate today,” he said conversationally as he worked. “Especially in such weather.”

“I do not think I can do much more on it until spring,” Grantaire reported, hoping that talk of such mundane details would quell the fire in his loins. “I am sorry. I know you wished it done by Christmas..."

“You can only do so much,” Enjolras said. “Do not worry yourself.” With that he brought his hands down, all the way to the small of Grantaire's back. Grantaire stiffened at the contact.

“Does it hurt there?” Enjolras asked, clearly mistaking the change in his body language for physical pain. It was, in a way – it felt like torture lying there with his erection pressed into the mattress, caught in the unique position of being unable to do anything about it.

“Ah, somewhat,” he said. “Not much. Do not worry about it.”

“I do not mind getting there, too,” Enjolras protested. His fingers moved in gentle circles, occasionally slipping just beneath the waistband of Grantaire's trousers. It was maddening. How easy it would have been to simply move his hips a little, to grind down against the bed for some relief – but with Enjolras on top of him the thought was unbearable. He appeared doomed to leave this massage in more discomfort than he had entered it.

It did not help that Enjolras moved from time to time to get comfortable. Grantaire was worried if he moved any more he would not be able to withstand it, and he would have to frantically explain a very telling stain on the bedsheets when this was all over. The rose oil only added to the whole mess - it was a smell he had come to associate so strongly with Enjolras that it felt like being enveloped in his presence.

“I think I feel better, you know,” he said. “I think that is enough.”

“Oh,” Enjolras' tone was almost disappointed. “Am I not very good at it?”

“You are brilliant,” Grantaire lied. “I feel the pain has drained out of me. Would you move?”

Enjolras did so, though not without mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. He alighted the bed, going to the washstand to wash the oil from his hands. Grantaire seized that moment to roll over onto his back, covering himself with the bedsheets to hide his predicament.

“I hope that was pleasant,” Enjolras said, pouring water from the jug into the bowl. “I could do it again for you, sometime?”

“Perhaps,” Grantaire said, as evasively as possible. The last thing he needed was for this to become a regular ordeal. The aches in his back and shoulders were still just as present before, now exacerbated further by the accompanying ache of desire in his trousers. Ah – his trousers! That he was still wearing them was a godsend, an _excuse_...

“I am going to go and change into my nightshirt,” he announced, practically leaping from the bed and hurrying over to the screen before Enjolras could look at him.

“If you are still in pain, I could assist you with that,” Enjolras said.

“No – no, I am quite alright, thank you,” Grantaire said. “You are most considerate, Monsieur, but it is not necessary. By all means, get into bed. I will join you shortly.”

There was a beat of silence. “Oh. Yes...alright, then...”

Grantaire winced – he could tell from the tone of his voice that Enjolras was unhappy in some way. No doubt he had offended him in some manner by ending the massage so abruptly. He most likely thought it some insult to his skill. If only there were a socially acceptable way to explain it – to reassure him that it was pleasant indeed, but that Grantaire had been certain he was about to climax and make the whole affair horribly inappropriate. He would have to simply remain in hiding behind the screen, and deal with his situation in silence when Enjolras was asleep.

“Goodnight, I suppose...” Enjolras said. Grantaire heard him climb under the covers.

“Yes,” he said, grimacing. “Goodnight.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wanted smut? Here's some smut. Enjoy.

-

**December, 1833.**

-

Fortunately for Grantaire Enjolras did not offer him a massage again. He did not offer all through November, and soon Christmas was upon them, snow blanketing the whole town.

Though Enjolras was a vehement crusader against excess Grantaire had been able to coax him into allowing them a rather fine festive meal, and when they entered the dining room on Christmas Eve they found the table laden with seasonal treats. Stuffed pheasant, oysters, venison, roasted chestnuts; it was a welcome change from the bland meals they usually ate. Macarons and all manner of cakes and fancies were to follow – including clafouti, of course, for what kind of husband would Grantaire be if he neglected Enjolras' favourite? It was perhaps the presence of the clafouti at the table that kept Enjolras from voicing his displeasure about the sumptuous spread.

Camille had already been asleep for an hour when they sat down to eat. They had spent the day as a family, marvelling as they watched him crawl from place to place, pulling himself up on various pieces of furniture. How amazing it was to watch how quickly children grew – and how terrifying, also.

“I am pleased you chose to remain with us for the season,” Enjolras said to Marceline, pouring himself a glass of water.

Marceline smiled. “My mother has a full enough house this time of year,” she said. “My brothers and sisters have come home to see her, bringing their spouses and children with them. She says she will miss me, and I am sure she will to some degree, but in truth I think she will also be pleased to have one less mouth at her dinner table.”

“Well we have more than enough food to spare,” Enjolras said, shooting Grantaire an almost disapproving look. Grantaire felt a smirk tug at the corners of his lips despite his best efforts.

“Clearly,” Marceline laughed. “And thank you, Monsieur, for the extra wages...”

“You deserved a gift,” Enjolras said, sipping his water. “I do not know the first thing about ladies' fashions, I could hardly buy you a bonnet or pelerine or something of that sort. I supposed with money you may do as you please...”

“Well I appreciate it,” she said, cutting into her food.

“Speaking of gifts,” Grantaire piped up. “Enjolras, I have one for you.”

Enjolras paused, glass still raised to his lips. His brow creased. “Oh. I – I did not realise,” he said. “I am frightfully sorry, but I did not get you one...”

“I know,” Grantaire said. “You do not need to. It was a gesture I wished to make, that is all.” He reached down at his feet to retrieve the box, sliding it across the table towards Enjolras, who seemed almost reluctant to take it.

He set his glass down. “You ought not have...” he said.

“But I did,” Grantaire said. He gestured to the gift. “Please, humour me.”

Enjolras hesitated a moment and then began to open it, pulling away the ribbon and lifting the lid. Grantaire saw his eyes widen slightly, saw his body language shift minutely with interest.

“Oh,” he breathed, running one hand over the fabric of the waistcoat. It was a rich blue, made from good silk – perhaps a little more ostentatious than Enjolras might have normally favoured, but Grantaire had felt like taking a risk. It appeared to have been a successful gamble.

“Grantaire,” he said, lifting it up to examine it further. “It is beautiful. But how---”

“I used the measurements you had Marceline take, for your dress,” Grantaire said, taking a bite of his food. “I figured you had not purchased any new clothes since we arrived here. Your other waistcoats are looking threadbare, and one can only mend something so many times. Do not mistake, they are perfectly serviceable – but I supposed you might benefit from something new.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, voice soft. “It is absolutely lovely.”

“I was going to get you a red one, but after everything, I...” Grantaire looked down. “I did not imagine that would be appropriate.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said quietly. “I agree.”

Marceline looked between them both curiously for a moment, before leaning across the table in pursuit of a second helping of venison.

-

It was almost midnight when they were finished eating and Marceline abruptly stood from the table. She gave a loud yawn – almost comical in nature.

“Well, I think I shall head to bed,” she said, wiping off her hands with a serviette.

“But it is not yet midnight,” Enjolras argued, confused. “Do you not wish to ring in Christmas Day?”

“It will still be Christmas Day when I awaken,” Marceline told him. “But I am very tired, and I am sure the two of you would like to be alone a while...”

Grantaire laughed nervously, reaching to take a large swig of water. A pity it was not port, he thought.

“I...suppose so,” Enjolras said, still looking mystified by her desire to leave. “Goodnight, then. Merry Christmas.”

“Yes, Merry Christmas...” Marceline pilfered one last macaron from the platter of desserts and then bid them goodnight, hitching up her skirts as she went. Silence followed her departure, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the sound of cutlery on china.

Finally, Enjolras set down his knife and fork, done with the last of his meal.

“That was very pleasant,” he declared. “And completely unnecessary. Do you know how much money all that food cost?”

“Of course I do, I purchased it,” Grantaire said. “You must allow us the occasional indulgent expenditure, Enjolras. Would you have us eat gruel for Christmas dinner? You did not seem to mind my spending money on your waistcoat!”

Enjolras did not argue for once. Instead he seemed to retreat into thought, drumming his fingers slowly against the tabletop.

“Grantaire, I must ask you something,” he said eventually.

Grantaire frowned. “Ask away.”

“Am I doing it wrong?”

“Ah, doing what wrong, exactly?”

Enjolras' expression darkened, as though he were in some way irritated by Grantaire's question. “This,” he said, clarifying absolutely nothing. He gestured between the two of them.

“I am afraid I still do not follow,” Grantaire admitted. He felt like he was the last to know about something.

“Being your husband."

Grantaire blanched. “I---no. Not at all...” Frankly he did not think there even _was_ a wrong way to go about navigating their union, given the circumstances. Marriages of obligation could rarely go right, in Grantaire's humble opinion. “You are...perfectly amicable.”

“Amicable?” Enjolras echoed. His face fell as though Grantaire had just slapped him, and he looked away, lips pursed. “I see...” More thoughtful tapping with his fingers. “So I _am_ doing something wrong, then.”

“Enjolras, I don't---”

“Is there a _reason_ you do not wish to bed me? Am I undesirable in some manner?”

“I---what?”

Grantaire felt like he'd just been struck across the back of the head with a sledgehammer. Enjolras' words technically made sense – they were words he knew in a language that he understood. But not strung together in that order, coming from Enjolras.

“B-bed you?” he spluttered. “What on earth are you---I don't---”

“I know you stated that you love me, but I also know that love and desire are sometimes different creatures,” Enjolras went on, ignoring him. “If you do not care to know me...carnally, that is perfectly acceptable, but I should like us to be clear on the matter, so that I know where I stand. Do I displease you?"

Grantaire was suddenly quite certain he was dreaming. Perhaps when he had purchased the food in town that morning he had not resisted a drink at the inn after all. Perhaps he had rather knocked back one dram after another, until he had fallen asleep. It was the only reasonable explanation for this. Enjolras stared at him, expecting an answer that Grantaire was quite incapable of giving.

“Enjolras,” he said, finally. “I am a little confused.”

Enjolras huffed impatiently. “Do you wish to bed me or not?”

“I do!” Grantaire blurted, without even needing to think. “God almighty, Enjolras, of _course_ I do!”

“Then why have you not tried to have me?”

Grantaire did not think he was going to survive with Enjolras asking these questions in such a blunt, pragmatic manner. He could feel his heart lodged halfway up his throat already. “I---well I did not know if you'd want to. I did not want to make you uncomfortable, I---wait. Are you saying that you want that?”

“Yes I want that!” Enjolras said, looking almost wounded. “It has been dreadful being rebuffed so without an explanation!”

“Rebuffed?” Grantaire's thoughts went immediately to that night in Limoges, when he had tried to undress him. To the massage, and Enjolras' strange behaviour. The disappointment in his voice when Grantaire had said he was going to bed.

_Oh._

“You---you have been---”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, averting his gaze. His cheeks had darkened to a delightful shade of pink. “Though I am still against it as a contract I wish for our marriage to become a real one – with all that entails. I thought I had made it known to you that I wished to – well, know you.”

“No,” Grantaire said. “You didn't. I would have remembered that.”

“I stated my intentions clearly!”

“How?”

“I kissed you!”

“That is not---Enjolras, you must say these things in words, or I...” Grantaire shook his head. “I did not know what to think about that kiss. I thought perhaps you were merely being friendly.”

“Friendly?” Enjolras recoiled. “I made every effort to seduce you! I made a shameless scoundrel of myself, and for nought!”

“But why would you want that? Truly?” Grantaire still could not make sense of it. Why would Enjolras – radiant, beautiful Enjolras – want to degrade himself in such a way as to be had by him? The majestic wolf did not take the mange-ridden mutt from the streets for its mate. Once was surely enough. It was utterly unfathomable that he would ever wish to repeat that night in Montmartre.

“Why do you think?” Enjolras said. “I return your sentiments...”

“You mean---”

“Yes,” his face became an even deeper shade of red, reminding Grantaire rather of the coat he had worn on the barricade. “I...I am perhaps not quite ready to say the words as they fell from your lips, but know that I do feel the same.”

Grantaire wished he could have had adequate words with which to respond. Nothing came to him. Instead it was all he could do to sit there and stare, certain that he looked a fool with his mouth hanging open as it surely was.

“Ah,” he said, when his voice returned. “Well, that is a surprise.”

Enjolras rose from his seat, tucking one curl of hair timidly behind his ear as he approached where Grantaire was sitting. He perched himself on the edge of the table in front of him, looking as though it was taking a great deal of bravery not to flee following his confession.

“I feel the same way about you that you do me,” he said. His eyes were intense, glittering like sapphires in the candlelight. “And, if you are amenable to the idea, I should quite like to go to bed with my husband.”

Grantaire would have liked to respond appropriately – perhaps to gallantly offer him his hand and lead him away to their bed to make love. But what Grantaire wanted to do and what his body wanted to do were apparently at great odds with one another, for the reaction he gave instead was simply to leap to his feet and kiss him full on lips.

Enjolras startled, uttering a little squeak of surprise into his mouth, and fleetingly Grantaire feared that he had made a misstep in his forwardness. But then Enjolras was responding in kind, snaking one arm around Grantaire's neck and bringing his free hand up to seize a fistful of his cravat, as though to anchor him in place.

The kiss was divine. His lips were dusted with sugar from the cakes and his mouth tasted of cinnamon and almonds, and as he dared to deepen the kiss with his tongue Grantaire felt Enjolras shiver as though a chill had swept into the room. It was dizzying, far more intoxicating than any absinthe, and Grantaire found himself addicted in an instant. All the more reason for him to have refrained for so long, he thought; Enjolras had always had his heart, but now he had his body as well, and he had the power to destroy him and deny him and leave him aching with longing. To kiss him like this should have felt like surrendering his soul, a deadly covenant between angel and mortal - and yet, it didn't. It was natural, it was tender. Imbued with passion, but also with patience, with warmth, with heart. It did not feel as though Grantaire were taking something he ought not.

It was Enjolras that finally broke the kiss, his lips lingering temptingly close to Grantaire's. Their eyes met, dark with desire, and then suddenly Enjolras was working furiously to pull Grantaire's cravat away, hands fumbling with the knot. He parted his legs where he sat on the table, Grantaire pressing closer to him until they were flush against each other. There was no need for further discussion; Grantaire reached forwards clumsily to unbutton the front of Enjolras' trousers as Enjolras did the same for him, each of them locked in a frantic struggle to undress the other. They were pulling and tearing and tugging, and in the midst of this fury Grantaire heard a button fly off and land somewhere by the fireplace, though he was too busy to take stock of whose it was. With Enjolras' trousers and underclothes on the floor at his feet and Grantaire's pooled inelegantly around his ankles they gave up trying to divest each other of the less important clothing, bringing their mouths crashing together again.

They were closer still now, touching where it made them both tremble, nervous as two untried maids on their wedding night. Despite this there was no questioning Enjolras' readiness - he was slick when Grantaire grew bold enough to slip his hand between his legs, a move that halted the kiss and earned him a little gasp of surprise. He might have withdrawn his hand at the sound, had Enjolras not caught it and held it there, a little sigh escaping his lips that spoke of pleasure. Drawing encouragement from this Grantaire continued, rubbing slow circles against him with his thumb and taking almost as much pleasure in Enjolras' expressions as Enjolras seemed to take from the act itself.

They kissed again, hotly, deeply, Grantaire curling one finger into Enjolras as they did and revelling in the way Enjolras squirmed and bucked his hips to get more of him. They went on that way for a few minutes - as though they meant to consume each other – and then Enjolras reached forwards suddenly to bat his hand away and touch him, slender fingers finding his erection with ease. Grantaire broke away with a gasp, still half certain he was imagining the whole thing. As if sensing this Enjolras brought his other hand up to cup the side of his face, blinking softly at him. Though Grantaire could feel their hearts racing wildly in unison there was a gentleness behind Enjolras' eyes, so blue he felt he could very easily drown in them. It would be a good death, he decided, as Enjolras guided him inside him.

It was far better than the last time they had done this. Enjolras inhaled sharply as he took him, the hand that was resting on Grantaire's cheek flying out to his side to brace himself on the table. Grantaire buried his face against his neck, giving a single deep thrust until he was enveloped by him completely. The table moved a few inches as he did, its feet screeching against the wooden floor. A few glasses fell, their contents spilling everywhere. Enjolras gave a breathless laugh.

It was probably poor taste, Grantaire thought, to do this here, now, on the dining room table as the church bells began to chime in Christmas day in the distance. The townsfolk would all be crammed into that cold little building now, taking midnight mass. Grantaire was quite sure their way of celebrating was more enjoyable – and closer to God.

Joined as one their desire became frenzied, the two of them moving against each other as though they meant to outdo the other. It was harder and rougher than Grantaire would have expected, but Enjolras' enjoyment of it was well beyond doubt. With every thrust the table shook and Enjolras let out a little gasp, a moan, a curse that Grantaire had not even known to be part of his vocabulary. The hand that was not supporting himself against the table – the hand that had brought Grantaire into him – was now on his shoulder, nails digging into him so fiercely that Grantaire was certain he would leave marks. He almost hoped he did.

Suddenly that same hand was in his hair, grasping a handful of dark curls and pulling tightly as Enjolras arched up against him, eyes closed. Grantaire did not have to wonder why. He cried out – first an indistinguishable sound of pleasure and then, to Grantaire's surprise, Grantaire's name. His given name, not the one he had always called him by. It was so staggeringly intimate that Grantaire did not know how to react, and it was over before he had a chance to savour it – the greatest curse of passion, he thought.

Enjolras gave one last whimper and sagged back against the table again, panting, shivering. He looked dazed, perhaps the closest to drunk Grantaire had ever seen him. He reached up with one hand to touch Grantaire's face again, clumsy, affectionate, eyes still glazed. It was this – this painfully tender gesture, combined with his parted lips, red as rosebuds, that finally sent Grantaire careening over the edge. A few thrusts, faster, frantic, without rhythm. Enjolras staring into his soul, legs still shaking from his climax. Grantaire withdrew – just in time – and with a barely stifled groan made an undignified mess against Enjolras' inner thigh.

A minute or so passed, the two of them breathing deeply, unmoving. And then Enjolras at last seemed to lose the ability to hold himself up; his arm gave way and he slid back onto the table, staring up at the ceiling. It was an obscene image, Grantaire thought proudly. Enjolras, legs still spread and hair splayed out over plates and half-eaten macarons, upturned glasses rolling along the table. The room was a disgrace. Grantaire hoped the sight would imprint itself onto his memory forever.

Finally, Enjolras spoke. “I did not know it could be like _that_,” he said.

Grantaire grinned. “I take it that is a good thing?” his reply came in the form of a laugh.

“I do not know if my legs shall ever carry my weight again,” Enjolras announced. Grantaire ran one hand along his thigh, feeling how it still quaked ceaselessly.

“Do not worry,” he said. “I will carry you to bed if I must.”

Enjolras raised his head then, looking as though it took remarkable effort to do so. His hair was far from the golden halo Grantaire was used to seeing – it more resembled a bird's nest now, and he was quite sure he saw bits of cake and meringue clinging to the curls. He would need to wash it, before sleeping. 

“Oh---the room---!”

“I will clean it up,” Grantaire promised. “It is best Marceline not see any of this, I think...”

Enjolras' eyes went to the wall behind Grantaire, towards the clock. “Ah. I did hear the church bells, then,” he said. “Merry Christmas...”

“Merry Christmas,” Grantaire agreed, for once in earnest. It was certainly the merriest he'd ever had. He took Enjolras by the hand, pulling him back up into a sitting position.

“Have I maintained any dignity at all?” Enjolras asked, trying surreptitiously to pat down his hair to no avail. Grantaire smiled.

“Ah, well – I would not say you have _lost_ your dignity, per se,” he started. “Misplaced it temporarily, however...”

Enjolras groaned. Grantaire could not help but chuckle. He reached for a serviette, making to wipe away the mess that was now running down Enjolras' leg in a way that could not have been comfortable. Enjolras shot him a grateful look, face still red. Grantaire could not be sure if his gratitude was for cleaning him up or remembering to take such precautions in the first place. Likely it was a little of both.

“Shall we to bed, then?" Enjolras asked, eyelids already seeming to grow heavy. 

“I must tidy up here, first,” Grantaire reminded him, kissing him sweetly on the lips. He felt Enjolras smile against his mouth. He would never get sick of this, now that it was permitted to him.

“Simply wake up early, before Marceline, and come down to do so then,” Enjolras urged. His hands found the front of Grantaire's shirt, and the half-untied cravat Enjolras had lost interest in amidst their lust. “I want to go upstairs and fall asleep with my husband.”

Grantaire pulled up his trousers, passing Enjolras his own. He could hardly disagree with that.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More smut here at the end. The next chapter will be a bit smutty too, but then there won't be much for a little while. They're getting to know each other, right now ;)
> 
> Also it goes without saying but DO NOT BIND WITH BANDAGES OF ANY KIND. It is UNSAFE. But this is the 19th century, so here we are.

-

When Grantaire awoke a haze of gold was covering his eyes, a veil that he quickly recognised to be Enjolras' hair. He blew it from his face and propped himself up on the mattress, glancing to his left to see Enjolras, sprawled out inelegantly across the bed next to him. He was still lost to sleep, lying flat on his stomach. A red rash ran along the side of his neck, the effects of Grantaire's stubble scratching at his skin, and he looked a little like he was drooling on his pillow. The thought brought a slight smirk to Grantaire's face. That – and the events of the previous night – made Enjolras suddenly appear more human to him than he ever had before. He reached out to touch him, for once not tensing as though expecting to be burned, and swept a little of Enjolras' hair back to admire his face, righteous and stern even in slumber. Only Enjolras could achieve the feat of looking simultaneously serious and serene, Grantaire thought. He pulled the sheets over Enjolras and left the bed to start a fire in the hearth. He would not have him waking to a cold room. Winter seemed harsher out here in the country, without buildings upon buildings crammed close together as they were in Paris. Whenever the wind blew it whistled over the tiles and down the chimneys, and the old house breathed and sighed like a great sleeping beast. 

With the fire burning well Grantaire added another log to keep it fed and stood, pulling aside the collar of his shirt to examine where Enjolras had sunk his nails the night before. Just as he had suspected several dark red indentations dotted his skin, tangible proof that it had not been a dream. Grantaire felt arousal stir in his loins at the mere sight of them. It had been better than he could have ever imagined, far better than that first awkward night they had shared in Montmartre. Enjolras had been wild and relentless, meeting every thrust with one of his own as though he considered it a challenge. By the time they had finished and stumbled upstairs to bed they had hit the mattress and fallen asleep without even finding the energy to undress beyond kicking off shoes and pulling off stockings. A good thing, really, with the cold that had crept into the room overnight – a bad thing in that Grantaire's cravat had apparently tried to strangle him in his sleep. He worked the knot loose and threw it aside with a yawn, glancing at the clock on the mantel.

Eleven-forty.

He frowned, squinting at it. _ Eleven-forty? _

His heart stopped. He cursed once, then again, and hurried out of the room towards the stairs, thundering down them and bursting into – a completely clean dining room. _ Marceline _, he thought, shame rushing up the back of his neck.

“Good morning, Monsieur,” Marceline said, slipping past him into the room from seemingly nowhere. Grantaire could not move from the spot.

“Good morning,” he said, forcing the words out.

Marceline shot him a knowing look. “You seemed to be in a rush to come down here...”

“Yes, I – I intended to clean up, I---”

“Do not worry,” Marceline said, grinning. “I have taken care of it.”

“I am so sorry,” Grantaire said at once, certain he must have been the colour of a tomato. “Truly, I – we didn't mean – I---”

“I said do not worry. You pay me enough for me to conveniently forget I ever saw anything,” Marceline joked. “Just barely, anyway,” she added, as though unable to help herself. Grantaire grimaced.

“Please do not tell Enjolras you saw the state of the room,” he said.

“I won't. I will even make a show of how lovely it was to wake up to find you had cleared the table for me, if you like,” Marceline said, visibly amused.

“Thank you. We do not deserve you, Marceline. Camille---”

“Is crawling about in the drawing room. I have made sure it is quite safe. Do not worry about him – now that he is eating solid food I thought I would take over for a while and allow the two of you your privacy...” she smirked. “Consider it a Christmas present. Go back up to your husband, Monsieur. Enjoy a day in bed with him and become better acquainted.”

Her words made Grantaire wonder just how observant she was, for they implied that she knew he and Enjolras had not truly been lovers until now. They had never said as much to her, nor thought they had given any indication of it. What else had she intuited about them, he wondered, thinking suddenly about Paris. His stomach turned over.

“Thank you,” he said again, running one hand awkwardly through his hair. He turned and fled the room, still embarrassed, and started back up the stairs, cold on his bare feet.

Stepping back into his own bedroom ought to have been the most natural of things, but this morning it felt distinctly different opening the door to see Enjolras still sound asleep. He had grown rather used to sharing a bed with him, had become achingly familiar with the cadence of his breathing, but this – this was quite another thing altogether. This morning Grantaire was not looking upon him as a hopeless devotee, but as a lover. An equal.

As he stood there in the doorway, gazing dumbstruck upon him, Enjolras stirred into waking, lifting his head lazily from his pillow. “Grantaire...?”

“Good morning,” Grantaire said, smiling. Enjolras returned the gesture, sinking back down and extending one arm towards him.

“Come back to bed,” he begged, voice silky in a way that was still new to Grantaire's ears. “It is so much warmer with you here...”

“Is that all you want me for?” Grantaire teased, shrugging off his waistcoat and sitting down on the edge of the bed. “My body heat?”

Enjolras let out an almost purring laugh into his pillow. He shuffled up along the mattress until he was closer to Grantaire, making a pitiful attempt to pull him down into bed. Grantaire was not the sort of man to try to resist.

“Oh very well,” he said, feigning defeat as he went. “I suppose I may be swayed into it...” he leaned in to kiss him and Enjolras met him halfway, pulling Grantaire on top of him. It was clear what he wanted, arching up against him, and Grantaire would have been perfectly delighted to oblige – had something not caught his eye and distracted him. He laughed, reaching forwards.

“What is it?” Enjolras asked, frowning up at him.

“Breakfast,” Grantaire joked, presenting him with the piece of meringue he had just extracted from his hair. “Or brunch, rather. It is a little late to be breaking one's fast.”

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “That was in my hair?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said. “There is more. Oh, and some cake crumbs, too. And I think that is a sauce of some kind, though I am not sure what dish it came from---”

“You tease,” Enjolras said, indignant.

“For once I do not. Your hair is a veritable feast of festive delights!”

His frown deepened and he wriggled out from beneath Grantaire, alighting the bed and storming over to the mirror. “My god!” he cried when confronted with himself. “Why did you not tell me I was such a mess?”

“Well you are normally so neatly put together that I confess I rather enjoyed the sight."

“I will need to wash my hair,” Enjolras lamented, sounding most disappointed that his morning plans had been ruined.

“Then I will draw you up a bath,” Grantaire said. “Since I played such a big part in getting your hair into such a frightful state.”

He saw Enjolras smile wryly from the mirror. “Very well,” he said. “I hope you will join me in it, though?”

Grantaire's heart felt like it was about to leap out of his chest. “Of course,” he said. “If that would please you...”

“Very much so,” Enjolras said, turning to face him. “I will help you with the bath water.”

-

The bath was sheer bliss. With frost clinging to the windowpanes and snow weighing down the branches of the trees outside Grantaire was grateful to be submerged in warm water by an open fire, Enjolras opposite him, legs entwined with his.

He was nude, save for the bandages around his chest, which Grantaire happily understood - he would never have begrudged a man his armour. Seeing Enjolras so exposed felt like a blessing, something he imagined very few people could boast to having witnessed. Both of them seemed set upon making a study of the other, admiring and inspecting every inch of skin they could see. Enjolras was perfectly human afterall, it appeared - scrawny, almost bony, the only soft part of him being his stomach, which bore a few telltale stripes to attest to Camille's birth. Not smooth alabaster or cold marble as Grantaire had once theorised – just warm, marked, perfectly imperfect flesh. Grantaire adored him in his entirety. He hoped Enjolras felt the same about him – about the scars and bumps he had picked up over the years, about the coarse, dark hair that seemed to grow almost everywhere, about the arms that were lean and strong from boxing and the gut that was the opposite from wine and rich food. Grantaire watched his eyes making a mental map of him, seeming to light up with interest at each new feature they came across.

“How did you get this one?” he asked for the third time, pointing to a scar above his knee.

“Ah, you know, I think that one was Laigle's doing," Grantaire said. 

“What happened?”

Grantaire laughed sheepishly. “A little too much revelry on our parts, climbing a lamppost near Place de la Bastille. Bossuet climbed up above me and I followed, singing 'Ça Ira' as loud as my lungs would allow.”

“'Ça Ira?' You?” Enjolras raised one eyebrow skeptically. 

“I sing most anything when I have enough wine in me,” Grantaire reasoned. “Anyway, our dear Eagle must have misjudged his footing or something of the like, as he came sliding down from his perch at an astonishing speed and knocked me quite cleanly from my place. Poor Joly had to stitch me up, cursing the both of us the whole time.”

Enjolras made a small sound of amusement. “Dangerous,” he said. “How about this one?”

“That one?” Grantaire's stomach sank slightly as he gestured to one just above his collarbone. “My father...”

The playful light in Enjolras' eyes died. “Oh,” he said. His hand relaxed, resting gently against Grantaire's clavicle as if he thought he might erase the scar from existence with his touch. “I am sorry,” he said.

“It is perfectly alright. I am enjoying this – this, getting to know one another so intimately. It is like a conversation between two bodies,” Grantaire said. “What of you, anyhow? What about - this one?” he ran one hand up Enjolras’ leg to a small white scar, tracing it with one finger.

“A most undignified fall from horseback when I was seven,” Enjolras told him. "The only fortunate thing about my childhood raised as a daughter was that I had a veritable cloud of skirts to cushion my fall."

“Is that so?” Grantaire laughed. “Is that why you looked so dreadfully uncomfortable riding astride? You were frightened? Ah, Enjolras - you could have told me!”

“And endured your endless rambling about how much safer it is to ride astride than sidesaddle? I do not think so,” Enjolras scoffed, kicking water at him. Grantaire threw up his hands to shield his face, chuckling.

“I would have been only mildly condescending at best,” he said.

“Of course you would,” Enjolras rolled his eyes. Grantaire did not think he would ever get used to this - this strange yet easy warmth that seemed to have blossomed between them where once there had been cold silence. Such conversation as this might have once led to a hard look or chiding comment, but now Enjolras went along willingly, even seemed to find entertainment in their banter. 

“And that?” Grantaire asked. 

“Hm?”

“That one, there,”

Enjolras glanced at his right arm, where Grantaire was now pointing. His face dropped in bewilderment. “This one…?” he said, touching it himself as though it might wash away in the warm water, not a scar at all, but a stain. “I...do not know. This one is new, I have not noticed it before now. I suppose I got it---” he broke off. He did not need to finish his sentence - Grantaire knew what he had started to say.

_ He got it on the barricade. _

“Well, I think we have wasted enough time on this, do you not agree?” Grantaire said, changing the subject so Enjolras did not have to. He shot him a look of relief. “The water will be going cold soon, and we ought to wash the crumbs from your hair, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Enjolras agreed. He shifted awkwardly in the tub, turning around in the tight space so that he was sitting with his back to Grantaire rather than across from him. “Would you…?”

Grantaire was certainly not going to turn the privilege down. He took the jug they had brought over to the bath from the table and filled it with water, relishing perhaps a little too much in the sounds Enjolras made as he poured it over him. They were maddeningly close to the sounds he had been making the night before.

“Did you clean the dining room?” Enjolras asked as Grantaire began to work the curls through his fingers.

“Oh, yes,” Grantaire said. He was glad Enjolras was not facing him to see how red his face had surely become. “Marceline was very impressed.”

“Good - that would have been rather embarrassing to explain,” Enjolras laughed.

“It surely would have…”

“That feels nice, what you’re doing.”

Grantaire hummed. “I cannot lie, I do love your hair,” he said. “Getting to touch it like this feels like quite an honour.”

“If you insist,” Enjolras said. Grantaire could almost hear the smile in his voice. They settled into an agreeable silence, Enjolras so quiet and relaxed that it would almost have been easy to imagine he had fallen asleep. Grantaire finished washing his hair, wringing water from the curls, and pressed a kiss to the back of his head.

“Done,” he announced. “You are looking as dignified as ever!”

Enjolras gave a little snort of amusement. He stood abruptly, climbing out of the bath, and Grantaire followed, wrapping a towel around himself as Enjolras disappeared behind the screen, likely to change his wet bindings for dry ones.

“I suppose I ought to go and tend to Camille when I am dressed," he said. 

"He is fine,” Grantaire promised. “With Marceline. She has offered to take over with him, for today. A Christmas present, she called it.”

“That was nice of her,” Enjolras said. Grantaire finished drying himself and wandered back over to the bed, sitting down on the mattress as he waited for Enjolras. 

“What shall we do with this time we have, then?” he asked.

Enjolras seemed quite certain of what he wished to do with their time, for when he appeared from behind the screen again he was wearing nothing but a loose shirt, damp hair tied back out of his face with a ribbon. Grantaire took some joy from imagining how wild it would be when it dried. 

“I have a few ideas,” Enjolras said, dropping his gaze almost coyly. He crossed the room to the bed, stopping in front of Grantaire and eyeing him up and down like he meant to pounce on him. Grantaire was willing prey, more than happy to be devoured if it was Enjolras doing the devouring. He could have torn out Grantaire’s heart and eaten it in front of him and Grantaire would probably have begged him for more.

“Oh?” Grantaire grinned, blinking up at him. 

“Yes. I do not know a great deal about such things, however," Enjolras said. "You must forgive any lapse in my knowledge...”

“Years of keeping Courfeyrac’s company and you do not know the ways of intercourse?”

“Well I did not much care to listen to his stories and conquests. I had rather more important things to be focused on.”

“A fair point, I suppose,” Grantaire reached forwards, placing his hands on Enjolras’ hips. “Not to worry - I will be very glad to educate you, if you should wish it…”

“I do wish it,” Enjolras’ lips twitched. “Very much so…”

“You are in luck, then. I may have made a poor student of art to Gros, but I may yet make a fine teacher of the hedonistic arts…” Grantaire drew him closer, flashing him another wolfish smile. It just so happened that sitting on the bed with Enjolras standing before him rendered him at quite a convenient height to begin Enjolras’ education presently. And oh, what a glorious way to begin such things! What a rapturous introduction to the ways of pleasure! Very much decided upon it Grantaire ran his fingers lightly along the smooth skin of Enjolras’ hips, leaning forward to kiss each of his thighs in turn. He felt Enjolras shiver as though from the cold, skin prickling beneath his palms. 

“What are you doing?” Enjolras laughed.

“Teaching you, of course!” Grantaire declared. He kissed him a few more times for good measure and then made good on his statement, putting his mouth on him in a way that made Enjolras’ hands come flying into his hair. 

“Oh---!”

Grantaire grinned to himself, hands still gripping Enjolras’ hips to keep him in place as he explored him with his tongue, against him, inside him. He felt Enjolras’ fingers twisting in his curls, tugging whenever something particularly pleased him; it seemed in doing so he was educating Grantaire in return, demonstrating to him what felt best. Truthfully Grantaire would have been quite happy to remain there for hours, memorising every sound and gasp his efforts coaxed from Enjolras’ lips as Grantaire tasted him on his own, sweet as nectar. Hours were not available to him, however, for he brought Enjolras to the crux of the matter in mere minutes. He panted and moaned and pulled Grantaire’s hair, and then with a shuddering cry it was over. 

Grantaire pressed a final kiss against his thigh and looked up at him. “Was that enlightening for you?” he asked. Enjolras’ response was a dazed nod of his head. Grantaire sat back, satisfied with his work. If he had only been so diligent in honing his other skills - he might have been a masterful artist, putting Delacroix and David to shame. He kept a firm hold on Enjolras’ hips, fearful that he might collapse if he let go. 

“That was---well---” Enjolras struggled for words. 

“Pleasant, I hope,” Grantaire supplied.

“Very…”

“Good.”

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, eyes still dark and hungry, and then without further commentary he was climbing into Grantaire’s lap, straddling him in a manner that left no uncertainty as to his intentions. Grantaire was already hard - he had been from the moment he’d gotten his mouth on him. It frankly astonished Grantaire that he still possessed the stamina for such things - but then again, this was Enjolras, who had once appeared to Grantaire to be barely mortal at all. He could never recall having seen the man eat or sleep before that June, and at times he had thought that he simply did not - that perhaps Enjolras did not require the same sustenance as other men. Liberty nourished his soul, he had decided. He knew better now, of course, but still - he ought to have expected such vigour.

“I must confess, for a beginner, you are showing great promise,” Grantaire said playfully. “A prodigy, if ever I saw one…”

Enjolras’ smile was practically wicked. “Little by way of experience does not equate to little by way of enthusiasm,” he said. And then he was on him, and Grantaire immediately forgot how to speak.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing but cuteness and gratuitous blowjobs tbh.

**January, 1834.**

**-**

Grantaire was quite familiar with the old Chinese proverb 'be careful what you wish for, lest it come true'.

Joly had put it to him across a table once, when he had been lamenting having spent his allowance for the month and wishing for someone to buy his drinks for him. By a stroke of providence a gentleman who he had bested at a match of singlestick had walked through the door mere minutes later, and to settle their debt had bought bottle upon bottle of wine for the table all evening, until Grantaire's legs could barely carry him home. He had no recollection of returning to his lodgings, but when he had woken past noon the next day he had spent the entire afternoon retching into his chamberpot. 'Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true,' Joly had teased for days afterwards.

Grantaire was now finding himself even more familiar with that proverb.

If someone had once told him that he would have the pleasure of bedding Enjolras, Grantaire would have refused to believe them. If that same person had gone on to tell him he'd be longing for a _reprieve_ from bedding Enjolras, well – not only would Grantaire have refused to believe them, he'd have laughed in their face. And yet, here he was. Grantaire would certainly never grow tired of seeing the look of ecstasy of Enjolras' face when they were joined as one - but, to be entirely truthful, he was starting to struggle to keep up with him.

It had quickly transpired that Enjolras was a demanding lover – almost as demanding as his own mistress Liberty had once been of him. He had an appetite that Grantaire had not predicted, and perhaps more stamina than a mortal man ought to. They spent their days as usual, reading and attending to domestic duties, looking after Camille – but at night Enjolras seemed to become some wild creature, a cat in heat, and Grantaire was afforded very little sleep between their lovemaking and waking up in the morning.

That was not to say Grantaire was not willing, of course.

He knew he was free to decline at any time - Enjolras would have accepted it without hesitation, without insult, without question. No, the crux of the problem was that Grantaire could not resist him, and had no desire to even try. When Enjolras' eyes darkened in that way, when he put his slender-fingered hands upon him, Grantaire was his. At all times Grantaire's mind and heart were eager participants, but his body – well, his body was desperately demanding some respite. He was starting to ache in places he didn't even know it was possible for a person to ache.

He ought to have anticipated this, he realised. Enjolras was a passionate man, a force to be reckoned with – and he no longer had the goal of revolution as a focus point for that passion. His blood ran hot, and evidently he had needed to find something else to occupy his time. He'd succeeded.

Grantaire glanced at him, laying comfortably beside him on top of the sheets, eyes closed. Despite the bite of winter the room was sweltering, warm from the fire burning in the hearth – and from their activities, too. His cheeks were ruddy, his hair stuck to his face, and his skin seemed to glow in the firelight. His nightshirt was ruched up at his waist, Grantaire's seed still drying on his inner thigh, and the room was clouded with that heavy, heady smell of sex and sweat. It was remarkable; the more messy and human Enjolras looked, the more divine he appeared to Grantaire. It was a different sort of divinity to that which had once surrounded him, though – not godlike, not saintly. No, it was the divinity of a lover, that raw yet ethereal beauty that could only encompass another soul in the presence of their partner. He saw Enjolras at last as he truly was; human, fallible, wonderful, and _his_.

“Enjolras, may I ask you something?” he said.

Enjolras opened one eye. “Hm? What?”

“I am merely curious, that is all,” Grantaire said, rolling onto his side to face him. “You seem to take much enjoyment in our – ah, marital relations...”

Enjolras hummed with amusement, closing his eye again. “You have only just noticed? Was my screaming your name not obvious enough for you? Might you prefer for me to put it to you in writing?"

Grantaire laughed, cheeks growing hot. “That is not what---I merely meant that you are particularly enthusiastic. It has me wondering – have you wanted this for a while?”

“You know I have,” Enjolras yawned. “Since we visited Limoges, in fact.”

“I do not mean with me specifically.”

“Oh,” Enjolras furrowed his brow. “Well, yes, I suppose. I harboured a general desire for it for a while, though I quashed it easily enough. I had too much to concern myself with, such things would have diverted me. Besides, my circumstances did not exactly allow for any dalliances...”

Grantaire reached forwards, pushing some of Enjolras' hair out of his face. “I imagine that was difficult,” he said. “I think most men take for granted their ability to take their pleasure with so little consequence.”

“I thought about it, once or twice,” Enjolras admitted, opening his eyes to look at him. “I contemplated finding someone discreet - maybe even paying them for their secrecy, though I would have no doubt felt shame for such a transaction. But it was never more than a fleeting fancy, something which I knew in truth I would never go through with. I doubled down on treating Patria as my mistress, and bid myself to think no more on it.”

“I am sorry, then,” Grantaire said, smirking. “For bringing your long and admirable streak of celibacy to an end.”

“I may be able to forgive you,” Enjolras joked. He leaned closer and kissed him softly, smiling against his lips. “Afterall, I am hardly complaining about it...”

“No,” Grantaire said. “But I regret that your initial introduction to such things was so...ungallant. I was not on top form, that night.”

“It was not exactly a dream come true,” Enjolras conceded. “But you have more than made up for it. What of you, anyway?”

“Me?”

“I am curious, about your own initiation...”

“Ah,” Grantaire flushed. “I was sixteen, as was the lady in question. She was a miller's daughter, pretty as the dawn – I have no clue what she saw in me, but she said she liked the way I talked. It was a brief affair, ending when her father caught us together and beat me black and blue. That was the first break in my nose, you know?” he tapped his nose for emphasis. “My father was a brute but he never hit my face. Her father certainly did, though.”

Enjolras blinked slowly. “Did you love her?”

“For a half hour,”

Enjolras laughed. The sound was musical to Grantaire's ears.

“What? It's true!” Grantaire said. “She didn't love me either, we were young and reckless, that is all.”

“And after her?”

“After her?”

“Yes. I am fascinated to hear about your former lovers.”

“Are you jealous?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, collapsing onto his back. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Do I strike you as that sort?”

“Not exactly,” Grantaire agreed. “Well – there were a few, yes, but...not as many as I boasted, I confess. There was one woman, nice enough, who left me for a banker. And before her there was a printer's daughter, with wit like a dagger. And a gentleman from Lyon, but we fell out over some dispute about the arts.”

Enjolras frowned. “I thought you did not care for the arts? Is that what it was about?”

“Ah, no – I said that I am a talentless hack, not that I do not enjoy them,” Grantaire said. “I did apprentice for Gros, afterall, though he was vexed by my inability to finish anything – and my eating the subject of the still life, of course.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “You didn't,” he said.

“I did. It was quite enough for him to send me away in disgrace.”

“For stealing fruit?”

“_Artistic_ fruit,” Grantaire said. “And herein I could make an _appallingly_ crass joke about how he caught me 'eating' the subject of the figure-drawing, too, but I will spare you that. Besides, you are rather more delicious...” he ran one hand up Enjolras' leg, all the way to his hip, and inwardly cursed himself for his own libido. What had happened to wanting a respite?

Enjolras shivered beneath his touch. It was far easier than Grantaire would have ever imagined to stir him up into a lust.

“On this very subject,” Enjolras said. “You have been holding out on me.”

“I most certainly haven't,” _quite the opposite_, Grantaire thought.

“You have,” Enjolras argued. “You have been most diligent in pleasing me – I do not deny that. But you have neglected to show me any ways in which I may please you...”

“Ah,” Grantaire looked away. “Well, there is not much need. I am pleased plenty by what we do, Enjolras. And your enjoyment brings me enjoyment.”

“I want to, though,” Enjolras protested. He shifted closer, laying one hand upon Grantaire's chest. “Please allow me to...” his hand began to trail slowly down Grantaire's front, as it had that strange and lonely night in Montmartre. Grantaire did not object – certainly not – and his breath hitched as Enjolras' fingers found him.

He was quite content to simply remain that way, with Enjolras using his hand far more deftly than one so new to such things ought to have been able – but then Enjolras was pushing him onto his back, moving down on the mattress. Grantaire did not even have the opportunity to make sense of the situation before Enjolras was taking him into his mouth.

“_Fuck_\---!” Grantaire bit the word out, throwing his head back. This – well, he had not expected this. It was delightful, it was magnificent – and it felt heretical. Though Enjolras had begun to appear distinctly more human of late, Grantaire found he could not relinquish his idol entirely, and for Enjolras to be doing such a thing – to be doing _this_ – well, it seemed degrading. Grantaire wasn't worthy of this – of that mouth that had once recited passionate rhetoric. He placed a hand on Enjolras' cheek to stay him. Enjolras paused his efforts immediately.

“Forgive me,” he said instantly. The sight of him had no right to be so erotic, Grantaire thought – but it was. He was undone, his cheeks red, his lips parted and still moist, his hair falling all over the place. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Grantaire said. “Nothing at all. I just – are you certain you want to – I – is it not – does it not feel---”

Enjolras' expression grew dark with understanding. “Did it feel degrading for you to pleasure me in such a way?” he challenged.

“No, but I---that is different---”

“How so?”

Grantaire did not have the right words for it. Enjolras saw him struggle, seemed to read something in it. His expression softened.

“I love you,” he said. Grantaire almost laughed. What blasphemous conditions under which to first say it! What a sordid declaration!

“Enjolras---”

“I enjoy pleasing you as you enjoy pleasing me. Did you take pleasure from what I was doing?”

“Of course I did...”

“Do you wish me to stop?”

_No_, Grantaire thought. What was aching between his legs thought it, too. “I merely do not want you to feel as though you must,” he said.

“I thought I had made myself perfectly clear on that,” Enjolras said. “I want to.”

There was something unbearably arousing about hearing those words from Enjolras' mouth, Grantaire thought. He nodded. “If you're sure...”

“Very. Please feel free to correct me if I should do anything to displease,” Enjolras said, before resuming his ministrations with added vigour. Grantaire sighed shakily, closing his eyes. He had absolutely no complaints for Enjolras regarding his technique – though it was all over the place, the explorations of a man new to such things. He was good at it, for all his inexperience. How right it was, Grantaire thought, that Enjolras' tongue should prove as provocative in the bedroom as it had before the crowds at the Place de la Bastille. He tried to remain stationary, to merely lie there and delight in it, but Grantaire found himself bucking his hips despite himself, making sounds of pleasure that were quite involuntary. Enjolras apparently took great encouragement from this, employing his tongue in all manner of ways to make him squirm and writhe on the mattress. Grantaire could feel his release building force inside of him like a storm.

“Enjolras---I---I am close,” he said, gripping two fistfuls of bedsheets.

Enjolras did not stop, even with this warning. He did not stop, in fact, until Grantaire's climax had run its course through him and left him shaking on the bed in its wake. Then Enjolras withdrew, visibly swallowed, and discreetly wiped the corner of his mouth with the collar of his nightshirt, as politely as doing so with a serviette over dinner. 

“Dear God,” Grantaire said. His legs were trembling so violently that he feared he might be incapable of walking come the morning.

“Was that acceptable?” Enjolras asked.

“_Acceptable?_” Grantaire laughed the word out. “Come here,” he begged, pulling Enjolras into his arms to hold him. “Only a man who could incite the masses to revolution could boast such talent with his tongue!” he said, only half joking. Enjolras ducked his head coyly.

“Courfeyrac mentioned that particular manner of pleasure, once, when I grew curious enough to ask,” he explained. “I am glad it was pleasing.”

“More than pleasing,” Grantaire said, burying his face against Enjolras' shoulder and breathing in the scent of him. “I dare say I may not regain the use of my legs for several days!”

Enjolras laughed – and again, the sound was lyrical.

To hell with taking some respite, Grantaire thought. The exhaustion was more than worth it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! Sorry it's a short chapter, but getting myself back into this one slowly.

Winter passed into Spring, and Grantaire found to his delight that he and Enjolras remained in a dreamlike state of newlywed bliss. He soon found that he came to know Enjolras' body as intimately as his own; he knew he had three small beauty spots on the back of his left shoulder in the shape of a triangle. He could have found and traced the white stripes that ran up the side of his stomach in the dark – and often did. He knew there was a small patch of skin on his right leg where he did not grow any hair, the result of having accidentally been burned with candle wax as a youth. And he knew all the places he liked to be kissed – particularly that little sweet spot on his neck, just behind his ear – and what made him melt readily into Grantaire's embrace.

It was not just their nights, however. They spent their days content in each other's company too, walking through the garden or the fields and woodland behind the house, sitting together in the parlour to read of an evening, bickering over dinner and debating as they once had – though the topics were far more trivial, these days. Politics and philosophy remained unwelcome guests at their table.

Camille grew, and was soon facing his first birthday, a matter Grantaire found both he and Enjolras anticipated with equal parts joy and sadness. Never before had he understood what people meant when they said babes grew too quickly, children within the blink of an eye. It was bittersweet. The little boy was starting to take his first steps, still clumsy, holding onto his parents' hands as they guided him across the room and fawned upon him when he managed to put one shaky leg in front of the other. Grantaire had never known such love. To see Enjolras so devoted to their son – a babe he had wanted to leave on the doorstep of a convent, once upon a time – made his heart feel fit to burst. Life was good.

And yet, for all their happiness, there remained a dark shadow hanging over them. A dark shadow that several nights a week would send Enjolras sitting bolt upright in their bed, panicked and confused and crying out for Combeferre, for Courfeyrac, for all of their friends.

One night Grantaire awoke to a horrible sound, not quite a scream, not quite a wail, and turned to see Enjolras beside him, thrashing at the air in terror. He gathered him into his arms to soothe him, only to be met with that same frightened fury; he felt a sting in his cheek as Enjolras' nails made contact with his face, sweeping across him like a cat's claws.

“Enjolras – it's alright,” he said, stroking his hair. It wasn't alright, of course. Their friends were dead, how could it ever be alright again? But he spoke the words anyway, spoke them and hoped if he said them with enough muster and certainty that maybe he'd will them into truth. “It's alright...”

Enjolras woke sobbing against his chest, burying his face into the crook between his neck and shoulder.

“Oh god,” he said. “I was back there. I had to watch it all. I was back there...”

Grantaire held him tightly. “I'm sorry you have these dreams,” he said. He closed his eyes and felt a rush of shame once again for his inaction on the barricade. “And I'm sorry that I don't. That I can't share it with you.”

“I am glad you don't,” Enjolras whispered. “You don't deserve to be haunted like this...” he raised his head to look at him, face growing so bloodless with horror that even in the muted moonlight Grantaire could see it. “I hurt you,” he said, reaching forwards gently to touch his cheek. “I'm so sorry...”

“You didn't know what you were doing,” Grantaire said. “It's not your fault, and it doesn't hurt so much. I promise.”

Enjolras hid his face against his front again, shaking, and expelled a deep breath. “Thank you for being here. It makes it a little easier.”

“I will always be here,” Grantaire vowed. That, at least, he did not doubt. “I know our vows were made out of necessity, but I do plan to keep mine, you know? Til death do us part. I will be here.”

He felt Enjolras smile against him, felt the hot wetness of his tears, too, against his skin.

“It is so odd to me, that we came to be,” he said. “It seems utterly impossible – and yet I feel as though I can no longer remember a time when I did not love you.”

As though by magic Enjolras' words chased away any dark thoughts that still resided in Grantaire's mind. He pressed his nose into his golden hair, breathing in the scent of him – like parchment paper and roses. Always roses, like the oil he used to keep his curls soft. Grantaire remembered the countless times he'd watched Enjolras from across the backroom of the Musain, wondering what those ringlets felt like, smelled like, what they looked like in the morning after a rough night of sleep. He smiled to himself.

“I love you,” he said, but when he looked down again Enjolras had drifted back to sleep, the crease between his brows smoothed away by contentment.

  
  


-

When morning came Grantaire was the first to rise. He left Enjolras nestled warmly under the covers, stirred the fire back into life in the bedroom hearth, and then ventured down to the kitchen make coffee. No doubt Enjolras would be grateful to find it waiting for him when he awoke.

It was still early - an ungodly hour in Grantaire's opinion - and as he stood in the cold kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil he found himself admiring the frost on the window, intricate lacework that glittered like diamond in the winter sun. He could hear birds out in the garden – robins and blackbirds and a single thrush, tapping a snail shell against the old stone of the house. Mornings in the countryside were so different from mornings in Paris, he thought. He had forgotten how much he missed it, after so many years in the city.

“Monsieur?”

Grantaire jumped, whirling on the spot to see Marceline, dressed and ready to start her day.

“Marceleine,” he said, clearing his throat. He gestured to his nightshirt and slippers. “Please forgive my comportment..."

“It is your house, Monsieur,” Marceline reminded him. “You may comport yourself however it pleases you...” She eyed him strangely for a moment, before stepping around him to retrieve the kettle as it began to whistle on the stove. “I heard something, last night...”

“Oh?”

“Yes...” Marceline turned to face him, clutching the handle of the kettle tightly. “I heard Monsieur Enjolras crying out in fear.”

Grantaire swallowed hard, stomach twisting with dread. “So you did,” he said. Marceline's expression became wary, her eyes went to the scratch upon his cheek, and Grantaire did not need to wonder as to what she might have been thinking. “Oh – oh, no, you misunderstand---”

“Do I?”

“Yes! He has bad dreams, you see. Horrible nightmares.”

“Nightmares? About what?”

Grantaire's mouth went dry. “Before we came here,” he said.

Marceline hesitated for a beat, and then nodded, setting the kettle down on the stand rather loudly. It made Grantaire wonder if that boiling water would have been meant for him, had he done any indignity upon Enjolras' person. In a way he was glad she would have gone to such lengths in his defence.

“You have to tell me, then,” she decided, putting her hands on her hips. “I know you did not come from Rouen. I am not a fool. There is something you haven't told me.”

Grantaire looked down at the stone floor. “If I do tell you then you must swear it will stay between us,” he said. “It is dangerous information.”

“I have not yet told anybody about Monsieur Enjolras' delicate matter, have I?” Marceline pointed out. “Why would this be any different?”

Grantaire steeled himself. “We are on the run, in a sense.”

“On the run?”

“Yes. We came from Paris.”

“What happened there? What did you do?”

“We were...Enjolras was involved in the student uprising, that June,” Grantaire said. “He was the leader of a small faction, a barricade...”

He finally dared to look up and saw that Marceline's face had softened with understanding. “That is why he has nightmares?” she guessed.

“Yes.”

“Did you lose people there?”

“Yes. Many. Both of us did.”

Marceline thought for a moment and then gave a nod. “That makes sense. I did wonder why you were so cagey about your past. I will not tell anyone, ever. Now – go upstairs to your husband,” she smiled sadly. “I will make the coffee. And I think there is still a little clafouti left if that might help Monsieur Enjolras' mood.”

Grantaire was glad she had kept her interrogation brief. He did not want to linger too long on the ghosts of the past.

  
  


-

  
  


As Marceline had predicted the coffee and clafouti went a long way to making Enjolras' day better. He looked radiant in the morning sun, Grantaire thought, lounging across the bed in naught but his nightshirt and licking powdered sugar off his fingers. His hair was a glorious golden mess, and he lay with his legs entangled warmly with Grantaire's own.

“Anything of interest?” Enjolras asked, watching fondly as Grantaire sorted through the post, which he had collected from town that morning. 

“That depends how you define interest,” Grantaire said, tearing open the letter from his sister. He scanned her elegant handwriting – so much finer than his own, she was always a perfectionist – and felt his heart sink like a stone.

“What's wrong?”

He looked up to see Enjolras staring at him with concern. No doubt his expression had said everything of the letter's content.

“My family,” Grantaire said. “They are insisting on coming to visit. They want to meet you, and Camille, too. My sister writes to warn me.”

Enjolras' eyes widened. “Write them back,” he said. “If you do not wish to see your father – which I know you don't – then tell them we cannot receive them. Make some excuse.”

“I can't do that,” Grantaire informed him. He tossed the letter onto Enjolras' lap. “They have already left.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive again!
> 
> AKA I finished my novel so this will be updating again.
> 
> Also I broke my rule of 'I know my headcanon names for Enjolras and Grantaire but I never say them', Grantaire's first name is mentioned in this chapter. The secret is out, after writing two whole novels where I don't use it. Oops.

“This is a nightmare!”

“Yes, you've said as much twenty times already.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Receive them, I suppose.” Enjolras passed the letter back to him, still lying comfortably in bed. “What else can we do?”

“I do not want to make you wear a dress and act the part of my wife,” Grantaire protested, balling the paper angrily in his fist. “Not in your own home. It would be an insult like no other.”

“It is a few days. I can survive that, believe me. I survived many more than that before I came to Paris, after all, and at my parents'. I see no feasible way of getting out of it."

“We could say that you died?”

“Grantaire!”

“Forgive me, you're right – that's probably a bad idea.”

“Yes, it is.” Enjolras frowned. He sat up, placing one hand gently on Grantaire's knee. “I have never seen you so worried. Melancholy and resigned, yes, but not so....fraught. What exactly are you afraid of?”

“Nothing.”

“Grantaire. Talk to me, please. We are still learning each other, I know, but – I should like – I should hope, perhaps, you might speak honestly with me of these things. Are we not married, after all?”

Grantaire felt all resistance leave him upon seeing the plaintive look in Enjolras' eyes. He sighed so deeply his whole body sagged. “I know my father cannot hurt me anymore – I am a grown man now, stronger than him. But I do not want to see him. The memories are...unpleasant, at best, and I do not want him around Camille. Or you. You shouldn't have endure him.”

Enjolras thought for a moment, and then shifted along the mattress to rest his head on Grantaire's shoulder, groping for Grantaire's hand with the one that had been resting on his knee.

“You had to endure _my_ parents,” he pointed out, lacing their fingers together. “We will get through it, as we have everything else thus far. Nothing can be worse than what we have already survived together. Besides, aren't you at least happy you shall get to see your sisters? What are their names, again?”

Grantaire managed a slight smile. “Carlota and Louise. And yes – I suppose that will help. It has been so long.”

“Carlota and Louise,” Enjolras echoed, lifting his head and furrowing his brow. “One name is Spanish and the other French?”

“Yes.” Grantaire's smile faltered, gone just as soon as it had dared make an appearance. “Carlota is only a year younger than me, you see. My father was still hoping to appease our Valencian family – he wanted my mother's fortune, after they eloped – and so we both got given very Spanish names. An olive branch, of a sort. But by the time Louise was born – she is some nine years younger than me – my father had given up on that endeavour. He banned my mother from speaking her native tongue and insisted Louise be given a 'proper French name'.”

“Oh. How charming.”

“Yes. You can see why I am not thrilled by the notion of this visit.”

“We will manage. What might we do to make your father's stay as thoroughly uncomfortable as possible?”

The question made Grantaire laugh. “I don't know,” he said. “He always wanted me to fail, to prove him right, so I suppose to see me succeeding in any way would displease him.”

Enjolras gave another contemplative pause. “Well then, he will see just that,” he said, decisively.

“How?”

“We will make the house nice. We will dress you in your finest clothes – you still have that nice coat you wore for the wedding, don't you?”

“I do.” Grantaire nodded. “You thought it was nice?”

“Yes. I didn't say, of course, I was far too proud. But you looked dashing, even I could not deny that,” Enjolras teased. “I will have Marceline get fresh flowers from the market, and some good food, too. New linens, for the guest beds. And I will have her bring me a few things from the boutique in town – some ornaments for my hair, a nice pelerine, earrings. She may have them when the ruse is done with. She deserves a reward for all she does for us.”

Grantaire stared at him, thunderstruck. “You would really do all of this?” he said. “Put on an act I know you so abhor?”

“For you? Of course.” Enjolras brought his hand up to touch Grantaire's face, thumb tracing his cheekbone with such delicate tenderness he thought he might weep. “We will make your father eat humble pie.”

Grantaire shook head in wonderment. “I have no idea what I did to deserve you, Enjolras. I will probably spend the rest of my life trying to figure it out.”

“The feeling is quite mutual,” Enjolras told him, and then his lips were on his, gentle and warm, and all of Grantaire's fears seemed to subside in an instant. They would get through this – Enjolras had said so, and so it would be.

  
  


-

  
  


“Not like that---”

“Like this?”

“No, not like---ouch! Alright, stop, stop!” Enjolras slapped his hand away impatiently. “You are going to make me bleed, at this rate! Just leave me to do it myself, I'll figure it out.”

Grantaire smiled sheepishly, stepping back and watching as Enjolras continued to struggle with his hair, holding a pin between his teeth.

“You needn't go to such lengths, you know?”

“I want your father to think you married well," Enjolras said. 

“I _did_ marry well.”

“I mean financially. Socially.” Enjolras winced as he stuck another pin into his hair. “Damned things!”

“You are going to turn yourself into a pincushion,” Grantaire said, amused.

“I will be fine. Just go and make sure we are ready for our guests. Has Marceline prepared the rooms?”

“Yes.”

“Good. She is a blessing. Where is Camille?”

“With her, now. He is all dressed up, though he keeps trying to tear off his bonnet.”

Grantaire saw Enjolras smirk from the mirror. “That seems about right,” he said. From the open bedroom window they both suddenly heard the sound of horses hooves come clopping down the long driveway, and exchanged a look.

“They're here, then,” Grantaire muttered, feeling his stomach turn over. “I will go and greet them – come and join me only when you're ready,” he said, leaning over Enjolras' shoulder to kiss his cheek.

  
  


-

  
  


It was Louise he saw first – rather, Louise who saw him first, launching herself at him with such velocity that he scarcely had time to catch her, her parasol almost poking his eye out.

“I've missed you!” she shouted. Grantaire laughed, lifting her off the ground for a moment.

“I've missed you too,” he said, setting her back down to look her over. She was taller than the last time he'd seen her, and much of the soft girlishness had gone from her features. She was a woman, now. Had it really been so long? “You've---”

“Grown up?”

“Changed.”

Louise beamed, folding up her parasol and rising up onto the balls of her feet to kiss his cheeks. “Papa wants me to marry,” she said against his ear, before rocking back. Grantaire felt the smile drop from his face.

“Marry? But---”

“I know.” Louise lowered her gaze. “But what Papa wants, he always gets.”

“Not always,” Grantaire said. “And not with you.” He glanced over her shoulder just as Carlota and their mother approached from the parked carriage, arm in arm, looking up at the exterior of the house as they came. His mother was just as she had been when last he'd seen her; frail, quiet, dark curls looking dull and drab. Carlota, too, had hardly changed – still every bit as proud and critical.

“This place looks like it's falling apart,” she said, the first words out of her mouth as she helped their mother over the threshold into the vestibule.

“It's an old building,” Grantaire said flatly. “It is perfectly sound, I assure you.”

“I should hope so! I don't fancy being buried alive in rubble!” Carlota huffed. She looked at him for true then, and smirked. “I've missed you, brother.”

Grantaire stepped forwards to embrace her. “I've missed you too,” he said. “Though your smart mouth far less so.”

She thumped him lightly on the chest as they parted. “Brute!” she hissed.

“Harpy,” he retorted. He turned to his mother and kissed her hand; she raised it immediately to touch his face, her dark eyes widening with disbelief.

“You look well,” she said. Grantaire thought he ought to be insulted by how surprised she sounded, but in truth he could hardly blame her. The last time they'd been together he had been a bitter and unwashed drunk, coarse with stubble and reeking of sweat and sour wine.

“I am well,” he said. “The country air has been good for me.”

His mother smiled – but the gesture was only fleeting, chased away by the sound of heavy boots.

“Put the trunk in the hallway,” his father demanded of the coachman. “And be careful with it!”

Those sharp green eyes swept the entrance hall curiously, before finally coming to rest upon Grantaire. His expression hardened to stone.

“I see you've pulled yourself out of the gutter, then,” he said.

Grantaire swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes, Father. It is good to see you.” A lie, of course, but it seemed to placate him a little. He returned the nod.

“This wife of yours,” he said. “Is she not going to greet us?”

“Ah, well---”

“Forgive my impropriety, Monsieur, but I was checking that your rooms were prepared.”

Grantaire spun around on the spot to see Enjolras coming down the stairs, dressed in the wine red gown he had worn to visit his parents. He had finished the outfit with a fine lace pelerine, and his hair – his hair was ridiculous, but fashionable. Odd, Grantaire thought, how often the two coincided. He had somehow succeeded in wrangling his golden curls into one of the tall, extravagant styles that was a la mode in Paris, complete with ornamental pins and a couple of ostrich feathers. Grantaire might have laughed if the circumstances had been any different; the look Enjolras shot him suggested he knew how absurd he looked, and shared Grantaire's thoughts on the matter. Another oddity, that – he and Enjolras were of late so often in agreement.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and curtsied politely, and Grantaire saw his sisters and mother scramble to do the same, all three of them visibly surprised. No one, however, could have matched his father, whose mouth was hanging open in shock. He recovered quickly, and bowed his head in greeting.

“It is so lovely to meet you all,” Enjolras said, laying on that charm he was so very well endowed with. “I am only sorry it has taken so long...”

“We do not travel often, on account of my health,” his mother said gently, stepping forwards to get a closer look at Enjolras. “We did not quite know what to make of it, when Antonio told us he was married...”

She shrank away as soon as his father approached, inspecting Enjolras as one might a horse they planned to buy at market. “Hm. I expected her to be ugly,” he said. “She's a bit hard-featured. Got a jaw on her like a man. But other than that, fairly comely.”

Enjolras met the remark with more patience than Grantaire would have thought him capable of. He smiled thinly.

“I thank you for the compliment, Monsieur,” he said, with such a subtle undercurrent of sarcasm that only Grantaire – and his sisters – seemed to catch it. His father grunted.

“Well, aren't you going to invite us into the drawing room?” he asked, turning on Grantaire. “This is hardly welcoming! And your son – I want to see the boy.”

“Of course,” Grantaire bit out. “Follow me. Would you like tea?”

  
  


-

  
  


Grantaire didn't think he'd ever been more tense in his life than he was watching his family meet Camille. The boy was as happy and bright as ever, grabbing at hair with his small hands and trying to bring it into his mouth, smiling as Louise bounced him in her arms. Grantaire wished he could be as free, as cheerful, as trusting. Instead he felt like every muscle in his body was as taut as the strings of a violin. 

“Don't worry – he wouldn't dare hurt him.”

Grantaire jumped a little at the sound of Carlota's voice. He had not even noticed her sidling up to him, arms crossed over her chest.

“He's got no reason to lay a hand on the child, and besides, he's getting old now – he knows you could best him, if it came to it.”

“Hardly a reassuring statement,” Grantaire muttered, flashing his sister a look. “I still do not like him near my son.”

“It will only be for a little while,” Carlota pointed out. “Try to endure it.”

“I've been enduring it my whole life.”

“Well then a little longer shouldn't kill you.”

Grantaire snorted.

“Your wife seems nice,” Carlota added, after a moment of pause. Grantaire glanced at Enjolras, sitting with his hands folded in his lap in the armchair closes to the fire, watching Camille like a hawk.

“Yes,” he said. “We're very happy together.”

“Hm.” Carlota's brow furrowed.

“What?” Grantaire asked.

“What do you mean 'what'?”

“You have that look.”

“What look?”

“That look you always get, when you're troubled by something.”

“No I don't,” Carlota argued. “I don't have a look for that.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I don't!”

“What's bothering you?”

Carlota looked away, over at Enjolras. “It just seems strange to me,” she said, lowering her voice further. “Your wife is rich and beautiful and comes from a good family. I don't understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why she married _you._”

Grantaire frowned. “Oh, well that's a lovely sentiment from my sister!”

“You know what I mean,” Carlota said. “She's the cream of the haute bourgeoisie. People like that don't marry people like us. Not without some very good reason.”

“We are in love,” Grantaire told her. “It's that simple.”

“Is it, though?”

“It is. We eloped.”

Carlota still did not seem convinced – so much so that Grantaire felt his heart start to race. The last thing he needed was his sister prying into the nature of his and Enjolras' relationship. The visit was going to be painful enough without having to dodge uncomfortable questions every five minutes.

“Well, your son is lovely,” she said, mercifully dropping the matter. “He's a little cherub.”

“He's the best thing that ever happened to me,” Grantaire agreed, softening at the sight of him babbling in Louise's arms. “I cannot say I am thrilled about this visit, but I am glad you are getting to meet him, at least.”

Carlota finally broke a smile. “As am I,” she said, hooking her arm around Grantaire's. “I have missed you so, brother.”

  
  


-

  
  


“I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry...”

“Don't be,” Enjolras said, cursing under his breath as he plucked pin after pin from his hair. “Thus far nothing terrible has happened, and it is only for a couple of days. They will be gone before you know it and life can resume as normal.”

“I know – I know, you're right,” Grantaire sighed, ceasing his pacing of the bedroom. Dinner had been uncomfortable, but tolerable, and as soon as the clock had struck a time respectable to turn in for the night he had seized the opportunity, yawning and stretching and feigning exhaustion. The rest of the family had soon followed suit, tired from the road.

“I am still sorry, though,” he said. “That you are having to put on this pretence.”

Enjolras shrugged. “It is like acting,” he said. “I have quite a skill for it, you know?”

“Yes, I can tell. A pity you do not enjoy the theatre at all.”

Enjolras hummed his amusement. “I am clearly a great loss to the stage,” he joked, standing. “Now, will you help me out of this dress?”

“_That_ I can gladly do,” Grantaire said, moving to assist him. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck between each button, Enjolras rolling his eyes fondly at him from the mirror. When at last he was down to naught but chemise and stockings he turned to face Grantaire, drawing him close to kiss him on the lips.

“Thank you,” Grantaire said, pressing his forehead to his. “For this – acting.”

“We have been through much worse together,” Enjolras reasoned. He arched one eyebrow, hand trailing slowly down Grantaire's front. Grantaire felt his stomach flutter.

“We can't,” he said.

“Can't?”

“My father is in the next room.”

Enjolras' serious smile turned positively devilish. He pulled Grantaire closer still and kissed him again, deeper, letting his tongue do much of the work. It was unfair how good he had gotten at kissing since his very clumsy introduction to the art. Some people were blessed with all the natural talent, Grantaire supposed.

When they finally broke away again they were both breathless, and Enjolras' fierce blue eyes were twinkling. “Are you really going to let him have any say over what goes on in our marriage bed?” he said. “We're being a perfectly respectable married couple, after all...”

Grantaire laughed. He backed up towards the bed, already lifting the hem of Enjolras' chemise.

“As always, Enjolras, you provide a _most _compelling argument...”


End file.
